Prisoner of War- Some Monsters Are Human
by RavensGame
Summary: Sam stared at their father. Dean recognized that look. It was the look Sam wore when he finally identified what they were hunting. When he realized the nature of the beast. When he knew the name of the monster. But this time, Sam was staring at their father.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Trigger Warning! This story contains thoughts of suicide. Please read responsibly.**

**Okay, kiddo's. **

**This is not the story I thought I was going to start posting today. **

**This is not a part of my "Confessions" 'verse. **

**This is some AU shit right here. This is dark. This will be long. I'm guessing 12-15 chapters. This story examines the idea of what would happen if Dean and John had gotten exactly what they wanted from a teenage Sam-compliance. This story plays very heavily on the ideas of "Be careful what you wish for." It also deals with some mega daddy issues. I'm not anti-John Winchester. I just think he's a douche. Maybe more so in this story than my normal ones.**

**So, I had trouble with this plot bunny. **

**I had this really strong image in my head, of a desperate Sam feeling like he was fighting for his life, from the very people who should have been protecting him. It started off exploring the darker side of humans. Then my evil brain took the same plot bunny and re-worked it featuring Demonic interference. Than the other side of my evil brain presented the same plot bunny, only featuring Angelic interference.**

**This is the strictly human version. If I like how it goes, I may work the other two dueling ideas up, using the same basic frame but different details.**

**Anyway, reviews are love.**

**P.S. -If you tilted your head, and squinted your eyes j-u-s-t right, this story could possibly be seen as containing the very, very early beginnings of Wincest. No smut in this story whatsoever, but Dean and Sam don't seem to have a very clear idea of what personal space means on a good day, so... yeah. This story will definitely feature Dean coming to the conclusion that he chooses Sam above everything else, which is pretty much canon to the show's Sam-and-Dean-are-Soulmates theory. If that's not your cup of tea, just tilt your head the other way. It's all in your mind anyway.**

**As Always, **

_**Ever Reader**_

_**Standard Disclaimers Apply, blah-blah**_

**Prisoner of War, Chapter no.1**

"**Two Weeks Notice"**

Dean hesitated at the door, duffel already packed and slung over his shoulder. Sam wouldn't meet his eyes, sullenly flipping through TV stations in the way only an angsty sixteen-year old could. His reluctance only increased when he saw the determined look on his father's face. John was adamant that Dean take this hunt, insisting that Dean help Caleb with the ongoing ghoul problem spreading across several small towns in South Carolina. It was easily a two man hunt, preferably a _ten_ _man_ hunt, from the sound of it. John, however, insisted that he and Sam remain behind.

_To train._

Just the thought of his father and little brother alone together made his stomach clench. Sam was becoming more and more difficult by the day. John was becoming more and more like a drill sergeant in response. John was convinced that he and Sam needed some time one on one, to get Sam back on the reservation, so to speak. Dean was more than a little convinced that they would simply end up killing each other. Sam had never responded well to John's military tactics. Sam was easily just as stubborn as their father, if not more so.

Dean had taken to the hunter's life with little issue, easily excelling at shooting, running, and other aspects of training. Sam had more difficulty, first being incredibly small for his age, then shooting up so quickly he spent years just trying to figure out where to put his feet. John had little patience for any of that, nor with Sam's demands for things like staying at one school for a whole semester, or playing soccer.

Now that he was finally settling into his body, training was coming more easily. Or, it would if Sam wouldn't fight it so hard.

Dean swallowed palpably, physically swaying in his indecision. He felt guilty, as if he were abandoning Sam. But that was crazy. Their father hadn't spent a lifetime of preaching to Dean about caring for Sam (protect Sammy, keep an eye on Sammy, watch out for your brother, Dean) just to break him the first time Dean left them alone together.

Yes, when it came to Sammy-care, Dean was the _expert_. But it was only two weeks. Two weeks, and Dean would be back. What could go wrong in two weeks? Dad would surely call him back if Sam got sick or hurt (don't think about that, Dean, Sam's gonna be fine).

And truthfully, Dean was tired. Tired of being the rope in the tug of war between his brother and his father. Tired of being the peacemaker, of always disappointing someone.

Perhaps Sam and his Dad did need this. Needed to readjust, now that Sam was hunting almost as often as Dean was. Needed to find their footing with each other. Maybe Dean's constant attempts at peace keeping was actually hindering them, instead of helping.

Resolutely he pushed out the door, refusing to make any final eye contact with his younger brother.

It was only two weeks. What could happen in two weeks?

_**SupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernaturalSupernatural**_

Dean had only been gone two days, and Sam was honestly considering hating him. He'd been woken up by their father at four a.m. the first morning.

"I've called you in sick to school for the whole week, Sam." John had announced as he pushed a still sleepy eyed Sam out to the yard.

"Apparently, you made it this far in life without getting the chicken pox. I want four miles by breakfast, or you don't eat. Oh, and Sam, if you want to go to school next week, you better look alive. I promised your brother I'd have you straightened out by the time he got back home. Now kick it into gear, soldier!"

"Yes, Sir" Sam had gritted out with as much malice as his un-caffeinated brain could muster. He reluctantly started the jog up the drive of the old farm house they were renting. His shivered in the cold morning air, under-dressed for pre-dawn calisthenics. His father had equipped him with a hunting knife, but no jacket.

"Time to toughen you up a little, Sam. Monsters don't care if you're cold." He'd said as Sam had put on his threadbare sneakers.

Sam hated running, hated the shooting pains that went up his legs (Just growing pains, Sam, get a move on), hated feeling breathless (if you ran more often, it wouldn't hurt so bad, Sam), hated running period.

Despite all that, his pace picked up even as his brain slowly woke up. It was going to be a long, hot day, despite the damp chill in the air currently, and Sam could already feel the beginnings of a headache stir in his head.

He sped up his pace, hoping that if he could just get some breakfast and an Advil in him soon enough, it wouldn't progress too far. His father had no patience for Sam's headaches. John thought they were nothing more than an excuse to skip training and hog Dean's attention when it should be elsewhere.

Dean understood that they were more, of course, but Dean wasn't here.

Just the thought of his brother's abandonment brought angry tears dangerously close to the surface. Sam swallowed them down resolutely. Dean had left him. Left him at the mercy of their father, hadn't taken his side, hadn't stood up for Sam.

Again.

Dean could never see it, how wrong their father was. How they both (not just Sam, dammit, but Dean too!) deserved real homes, with beds and sheets and enough food to eat.

Their father should have tanned Dean's ass for dropping out of school. John knew more than anyone just how smart his eldest was, yet he allowed, no, _encouraged_ Dean to drop out.

How many times growing up had Dean given Sam his portion of food, before an eight-year old Sam had caught on to the fact that there wasn't always enough?

Sam still remembered how furious Dean had been when he realized that a guilty Sam had turned the tables on _him_, sneaking some of his own portion back when Dean wasn't looking. Dean had been positive that the reason Sam had been so small for so many years was because Sam hadn't eaten everything Dean had tried to give to him.

But he hadn't been upset with John, no. Hadn't considered that no matter what size your bowl of spaghetti-O's, or how much macaroni you ate, you still weren't getting _nutritious_ food. That being forced to train for six hours every Sunday didn't make up for weeks left in hotel rooms when John had to be out of town.

No. He had been mad at Sam for lying. Mad at Sam for fighting with their Dad. Mad at Sam for standing up for himself, for standing up for _Dean_.

Sam had fought tooth and nail for every inch their father had ever given him. Had fought for every shred of normalcy. Fought for _scraps_ of what other kids just took for granted.

He was so tired of having to fight. Tired of feeling angry, tired of feeling scared. Tired of feeling like the enemy.

He chest was burning by the third mile, and he wished he had a water bottle to combat the cough that had started about half a mile back. He pushed on though, comforting himself with thoughts of coffee and a shower.

Finally, he trudged wearily up the back steps as the sun finally crested. He didn't get far.

"Dean could have done that in half the time." His father said without looking up from the morning paper.

"Dean's not here." Sam said angrily.

"No." His father agreed, finally looking at him. "He's not. So this afternoon, you can take his run for him."

Sam's eyes widened. His breath hitched and helpless fury coursed though his body.

His father stared back implacably.

He's enjoying this, Sam realized. He _likes_ this power. He thinks if he can just break me down into enough pieces, he can build me back into whatever shape he wants. He wants to turn me into just another good little soldier. A tool, a weapon. Just another recruit in John Winchester's army.

_He doesn't even see me._

"Why wait?" Sam said tightly. Ignoring the flash of surprise on his father's face, he turned back out to the yard. Stopping only to get some water from the rusty faucet in yard, he started running again, stripping off his t-shirt in the process.

Heat stroke, pneumonia, asthma attack. Anything was better than staying in that kitchen with John Winchester one more moment.

A mile in to his second run, he had to stop and throw the water up. By the next mile his head was pounding like a drum. The mile after that, the blisters on both feet had broken open and were possibly bleeding.

Sam didn't care. He had reached a point where the ragged-painful-numbness of everything held him firmly in it's grip. A car could hit him, and asteroid could land on him. Let it come.

"I won't let him break me." The thought reverberated through his mind with every footfall. He'd felt like prisoner his whole life, like a caged bird beating itself in frantic rage against the bars. He'd give anything for someone to look at him and just _see him_, see Sam, see his pain, see the desperate screaming in his mind.

He didn't want to be a hunter. He didn't want to chase monsters and live out of dirty hotels and make his money off of credit card scams. He didn't want this, any of this, the blood, the pain, the fear. He didn't want to sew his brother's leg closed after a poltergeist threw a carving knife at him. He didn't want to know what a hell gate was.

He wanted Thanksgiving, with a turkey, and to fill out college applications. He wanted to go on dates. He wanted to be acknowledged for who he actually was, instead of being judged by his father's hopelessly high standards.

Sam wanted **out**.

He'd thought about it a hundred times. Going away to college, running away from home. Ask to stay with Bobby, hitch hike to Blue Earth. Turn himself into family services. Every possibility, every scenario running through his busy mind in every quiet moment.

Sam had thought about how hard it would be to actually walk away from his dad, away from Dean. To become the ultimate disappointment, the boy who walked out on his family.

He'd even, at his lowest points, thought about suicide. When the pain got too be to much, and his father was looking at him in anger, and Dean with tired disappointment, he'd considered it. The means, the ways. Sometimes it seemed like the only real way out.

Eat a bullet, and then no more pain. No more disappointment. No more broken family, broken dreams, broken life. No more fighting for every small bit of happiness. No more having to earn every-single-breath.

No more father trying to break him, beat him down, re-build him into someone else. No more unanswered prayers and violence and vengeance.

No more fear.

Sam didn't even consider the idea all that crazy. If his family got their way, he was going to grow up to be a hunter, and hunters didn't exactly have a long life expectancy anyway, after all.

Sam had never been able to wrap his mind around the hypocrisy of it all. Be stronger, faster, smarter than the monsters. Be ready, be prepared for the monsters.

Then go hunt the monsters. Seek the monsters out, walk in the dark, dangerous places. A lifetime of target practice just to play a game of Russian roulette.

But if his father and brother truly wanted him to be safe, why want him, no, why _insist_ on him hunting?

Weren't parents supposed to protect their children?

Sam finally stopped, simply collapsing on the side of the road, dizzy with exertion. He breath came in ragged gasps and his cough had worsened.

He could end all this.

He could do it. Like his father always said, the only way out is through.

He could just...end it.

It seemed more and more like his only choice. He could walk away from his father. He could abandon hunting.

But what about Dean?

He could never just walk away from Dean. Sam didn't have it in him to abandon the brother who'd changed his diapers, made his bottles, taught him to tie his shoes. The brother who went hungry so Sam wouldn't. Sam would never be able to just run away. He'd be pulled back, back to Dean like a moth to a flame, like iron fillings to a magnet.

He didn't _want_ to leave Dean. He wanted to save himself, sure, but he wanted to save Dean, too. Dean would never willingly leave their father, however. Wouldn't come with Sam if he left, wouldn't choose Sam over John. No words would ever be enough to free Dean from his cage.

But if Sam stayed, stayed in the life, stayed a hunter, it would eventually end him. Maybe not physically, but mentally, emotionally. It would eat away at all the things that made him Sam. It would reach a point where a violent spirit would make a welcome end.

Sam felt like a prisoner of war, under torture for the crime of being born on the wrong side. He didn't ask for this life, but he couldn't find away to escape without leaving Dean.

Then next day, John again woke him up before sunrise, adding an obstacle course and target practice to the line up. And the running. Always with the running to nowhere, the endless running-running-running but never escaping.

Despite his worsening cough, in time it came to be almost soothing. A place Sam could go where his mind, at least was free. When Sam was running, John wasn't yelling, wasn't judging. But with every step, the same three thoughts echoed in his head.

A brother or a bullet.

How could he leave Dean?

How could he stay?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: ****Well, hopefully everyone had a good weekend. I pretty much battened down the hatches and wrote like a maniac. I had some trepidations about this story, but so far the response has been good. Just a reminder, though this chapter is very tame, this story itself comes with with a trigger warning for suicidal thoughts, and in case you didn't pick up in the last chapter, Sam is obviously trying to find a way to cope with his (rather reasonable, in my opinion) depression.**

**This chapter is from Dean's point of view, which will be the case often for this story, as even though this is a Sam-centric story, being inside Sam's head would give away a little too much of the plot. **

**Additionally, big brother Dean is awesome, and a large part of this story is Dean's character arc, in which he grows away from the mindless obedience he shows to John at the cost of Sam's emotional needs. I am a Sam girl, to the absolute core of my being, but never think I don't adore Dean also. This story just allows him to become the awesome person he's destined to be a little bit sooner. One of John's biggest crimes in my opinion (And Sam's, according to canon) is the way he trivializes Dean's amazing abilities as both a hunter and a leader, to the point where he doubts his own capabilities.**

**Oh, and fair warning. I am not entirely sure this story has a happy ending. I am kinda on the fence. There is going to be some major !Hurt!Sam, and really, the plot bunny could go either way.**

**Review if you have a preference, because seriously, this rabbit can't make up it's mind.**

**I hope you enjoy, and remember, not only are reviews love, but they let me know if what I am seeing in my head is being accurately translated onto paper!**

**And I have to give a shout out to my bestie, Sand_AllyMayhem, who beta's in person and via email for me since she does not write on this site, despite the fact that I think she would be amazing. We literally phone conferenced at midnight. **

**As Always, **

_**EverReader**_

**p.s.-Is my John too evil? I think he does his best, but whatever part of him that makes him a decent person is obviously broken inside, so he has about as good of a chance as being a decent dad as Soulless Sam. (Who I adored, by the way.) I know he states some incorrect information in his journal entry, but I'm trying to use the entry as a way to portray John's search for information, and at the point the entry is dated, he only has suspicions, some of which will prove to be incorrect, of course. I'm really just trying to give a peak inside a very enigmatic character.**

**Disclaimer****: If Sam and Dean were mine, do you really think I would let John treat them this way?**

**Prisoner of War, Chap. No 2**

"**One More For The Hell Of It"**

_**Excerpt from the private of journal of John Henry Winchester:**_

_**May 2, 1993**_

"_**Today was Sammy's tenth birthday, though I missed most of it due to a hunt. He looked at me with those haunting eyes of his, and I swear, at times it's like being judged by Mary herself. Though Dean by far looks more like both his mother and I, sometimes Sam will tilt his head a certain way, with that crooked grin of his, and I can't even breathe for how much it reminds me of his mother.**_

_**This hunt consumed me, in no small part because of the scraps of information I gleaned from the demon before I dispatched it. I am more sure than ever now that taking the boys, particularly Sammy, with me was the right thing to do. Missouri had argued with long and hard with my choice to take them with me on my travels, even offering to keep them herself. But whatever it was that drew the demon to Sammy's nursery that night must still be inside him, part of him. The night he was attacked by the Shtriga only confirms my suspicions. Something inside my child is a beacon to the things that roam the darkness. Were I to leave him and his brother behind with a civilian, even one as knowledgeable as Missouri, I risk damning them to the same fate as Mary.**_

_**At least that's what I tell myself in the light of day. I do not let myself consider the possibility that perhaps I keep him so near...as bait for the monster.**_

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

_Twelve Days._

That's how long Dean lasted. He and Caleb had cleared out the last of the ghouls shortly after midnight, and Dean had jumped back into the Impala, not even taking up Caleb's offer of six hours of shut eye first. He was sore and exhausted. He had three stitches near his right collarbone from where an undead sixteen year had taken a swipe at him with what must have once been an expensive manicure.

Dean didn't care about any of that, however. He jumped in a quick shower, and was back in his baby in under thirty minutes. He wanted to get home. He hadn't seen his Dad or brother in nearly two weeks. What's more, he'd barely spoken to them for two weeks. Conversations with his dad were always more of a debriefing than anything else. And the handful of times he'd gotten Sammy on the phone had done little to put his mind at rest.

Sammy had sounded...well, fine. He'd sounded fine. Perfectly, completely, _absolutely_ **fine**. So fine that whenever Dean had pressed for details of Sam's day, the only answer he ever got back was 'Everything's fine, Dean... I'm fine... Dad's fine... It's all fine."

Dean snorted to himself as he drove, seeing the city limit sign for the podunk farm town his Dad was currently using as a home base. Dawn was just streaking the sky in shades of orange and pink.

'_Fine_', Dean thought to himself, snorting again. Yeah, he'd just bet everything was just frickin peachy. Sam was obviously so pissed off he wasn't even speaking to Dean long enough to tell him he wasn't speaking to him.

_Just great_.

He'd known better than to leave Sam alone with Dad. He'd been longing for a little peace, and a chance to show some of the other hunters in the area just what he could do on his own. He hadn't expected it to be so lonely, though. True, Sam and Dad's constant fighting were enough to drive a saint to drink, but it wasn't always all bad. He'd missed his Dad and the sense of order and safety he always felt around him.

More than anything, though, he'd missed Sammy. No matter how much they fought, Sammy always had his back. They always seemed to work together seamlessly, Sam picking up on Dean's plans almost before Dean seemed to think of them. Sam wasn't always the most physically capable hunter, he was only a kid after all, but he was still more skilled than a lot of adult hunters Dean had encountered. Sam made up for what he lacked physically with a lightning quick mind, and he was a crack shot to boot, possibly better than Dean himself.

Working with the other hunters had been disconcerting at times for other reasons, too. He'd find himself in conversation with one or another, wisecracking, only to receive blank stares in return as he remembered once again that Sam wasn't there to catch the inside joke.

He'd missed the kid, in all his nerdy, goofy Sasquatch glory. Sam has a way of taking the world head on, as if, for him any door could swing wide open. For all Dean's teasing, the cynicism of Dean's most recent hunting partners had made Dean yearn for Sam's enthusiasm and optimism.

He pulled up to the rickety old farmhouse, killing the engine. He studied the place with a hunters eye, seeing nothing amiss. It was barely five, and Dean was tempted to just collapse in bed for another couple of hours. Just then his stomach rumbled and he grinned ruefully to himself.

_Better be breakfast, _Dean decided. He let himself into the back door of the farm house, which led straight into the kitchen. Sam should be up in another hour or so to get ready for school. Dean would make his brother breakfast, an opening salvo that might hopefully defuse the ugly situation he was no doubt walking into. Dean opened the fridge, taking out the carton of eggs and checking the contents, grateful for once that his Dad had stayed around long enough to ensure there was actual food in the house.

Dean had never said anything to Dad about how dire the money situation got for the boys sometimes, instead choosing to suck it up and make do. Monsters didn't care if you were hungry, after all.

Once he was old enough to use his fake ID to get into bars (and whatever pool or poker games he could track down), he'd made it a point to make sure he and Sam always had enough money to eat. Dean didn't like to think back on all the years Sammy had been so undersized, so much smaller than Dean and all the kids around them. He refused to think back on all the times he'd slipped Sam his own portion of food, only for Sam to somehow manage to return the favor at the next meal. His few months at Sonny's all those years ago had made it crystal clear to him just how much a growing teenage boy should be eating. So once he was old enough to put his fake ID to use, he made sure there was always enough food for him and Sammy to not ever have to go hungry.

It hadn't bothered him to take charge of that sort of thing, just as it had never bothered him to give Sam his portion when there wasn't enough. It was simply what Dean did, after all. The same way he had started making sure Sam's lunch account at school always had money in it, or he took Sam to get shoes when he outgrew the old ones. Their Dad was a busy guy, he was saving lives after all. So he took it on as a natural progression of his primary job in life.

He watched out for Sammy.

It seemed to pay off, if Sam's growth spurt over the past few years was any indication. Dean was grudgingly coming to accept that his shrimp of a little brother might actually end up taller than him.

Maybe.

Whistling, he cracked two more eggs in the skillet, scrambling them with a deft, practiced hand. He'd been cooking eggs for Sammy for longer than he could remember, and by now he could prepare a plate to Sammy's liking without so much as a spare thought.

Dividing the eggs in three portions, he dropped some bread in the toaster, flicked the coffee pot on (Sammy got vicious headaches if he went to long without caffeine) and headed down the hall to the room he was currently sharing with his brother.

"Yo, Sam-my, time to rise and shi-" Dean paused taken aback by the empty room, both beds made up with the clinical military precision their father demanded whenever they were in the same place more than a night or two.

Dean frowned and headed down the hall to the head. The door was wide open, no little brother to be seen. Pausing to listen for a moment, he then half-jogged back to the main living room. Maybe Sam had fallen asleep on the couch with his homework. It wouldn't have been the first time, after all.

Every room Dean checked was as empty as the first, however, and Dean felt the first stirrings of true panic. His Dad was still asleep in the master bedroom, snoring gently, journal and bottle of jack by his side.

Dean moved quickly out to the front porch, giving a shout for his brother- "Sam? Sammy!" He glanced around frantically, still seeing no signs of foul play, yet no little brother either.

'_Crap_.' Dean thought to himself. _'He's frickin run away. I knew I shouldn't have left him with Dad_.' Dean shook his head, swearing. Their Dad was gonna be PISSED-

"Dean?" The mildly-voiced question had Dean startling, turning and drawing at the same time, only to be met by the sight of Sam starting up the steps wearing sweat -soaked jogging clothes. Years of training and instinct had Dean's finger off the trigger just as quickly as it had Sam fluidly stepping back and raising his arms.

"Sam?" Dean asked, heartbeat starting to settle as he scanned Sam from top to bottom. Sweaty hair accented the high red patches on Sam's cheeks, his breath still whistling a little from his recent exertion.

"Good...morning?" Sam replied mildly, eyebrows raised as he motioned faintly towards to piece still aimed at him.

"Shit." Dean started, then quickly replaced his gun at the small of his back. "Where the hell you been, Sammy?" he asked, his concern roughening his voice. He moved forward to wrap Sam in a hug. Dean wasn't much for chick flick moments, but he'd been sure, just for a second, that Sam had been gone, well and truly _gone_.

"Uh..." Sam had stiffened slightly when Dean had hugged him. "Jogging. Dean, you...okay? Little hyped up, maybe?" Sam asked, gracefully disengaging from the embrace, leaving behind a somewhat disconcerted older brother.

Sam had never shrugged off an embrace from his brother before, and his action startled Dean, who whipped a hand out to catch Sam by the shoulder.

"Jogging? It's not even five am, Sammy." Dean studied his sixteen year old brother's face intently, looking for clues to Sam's actions.

Sam hated training, hated target practice, hated hunting. But more than anything, Dean knew, Sam hated _jogging_. Hated it with a well nourished passion, preferring sit ups, push ups, even the obstacle course to being forced to simply _run_.

Sammy's face remained impassive though, as blank as if he were sitting at a poker table. Dean could discern no signs of anger, aggression or even irritation in his expression.

He looked... fine.

"Training." Sam finally offered his monosyllabic answer with a one shouldered shrug, studying Dean as intently as he himself was being watched.

"Training?" Dean repeated, eyebrows raised. "Dad's still in bed with his good friend Jack, Sammy. It probably coulda waited another hour, don't ya think?" Dean fished, still trying to sound out the depths of his siblings hurt over what he must have perceived as Dean's abandonment.

Sam gave another shrug. "Cooler now than once the sun's up." He offered simply when it became clear that Dean wasn't moving without an answer.

"Oh." Dean stopped, halted by his brother's perceived logic. "Makes sense, I guess. I got home about an hour ago, made some grub, went to wake you and you were gone." Dean stated, distaste at the thought of misplacing his brother marring booth features and voice.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "To which the proper response was standing on the porch, hollering my name?" Sam asked, traces of idle amusement in his voice.

Dean grinned sheepishly. "Okay, I might be a little hyped up. Maybe." He reluctantly conceded. "Come on!" He gestured towards the door. "Grab a shower and I'll reheat your food" Dean offered.

Sam was already shaking his head '_no_', however, backing down the stairs as he did so.

"Nah, still got another mile to go. Just stopped 'cause you were screaming my name like Rocky on the stairs".

"Another mile?" Dean asked incredulously. Sam had already gone out by the time Dean had gotten home, which meant he'd been running for over an hour now, at least. "How many does Dad have you doing?" Dean demanded suspiciously.

Had Sam been acting out while Dean was away, leading to running extra as some sort of punishment?

"Oh, I did those already." Sam replied with a strange smile. "This last one's for me. Another one, just for the hell of it, ya know." He started jogging backwards, then turned and continued back down the drive.

"Hey, Sam? Sammy, come back, man!" Dean shouted, but it was useless, Sam already nothing more than a steadily shrinking shape down the road.

"Monster's don't care if you're tired, Dean!" Came Sammy's reply turning to jog backwards once again, arm wide open in a 'come at me' gesture. His words echoed in the morning's stillness.

Dean stood staring for another moment, before a sound behind him alerted him to his father's presence.

"Dean." John gave the no-frills greeting as he sipped his coffee. "Hunt wrapped up satisfactorily, I'm assuming."

"Yes, Sir." Dean replied, still staring out to where his brother had disappeared.

"Your brother back from his run yet?" John asked, checking his watch.

Dean frowned. "Actually, it was weird dad. Sam said something about finishing the miles you assigned him and then doing one one more for the hell of it." He looked to his father for some clue as to Sam's strange behavior.

"Good." John said without inflection. "Long as he gets his assigned run done, he can do as many more as he wants." He turned to back into the house.

"How many miles Sam up to, now, anyway?" Dean asked, as casually as he could. He couldn't place his finger on it, but something about this whole thing was bugging him. Sam was acting weird, Dad was acting weird. Hell, they didn't even seem to be fighting and when was the last time _that_ had happened?

"Five from me." John replied steadily.

"Five?" Dean exclaimed in alarm. "Shit Dad, I only run four. And now he's running another one for kicks? What the hell didja you say to him?"

John looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Watch your mouth, soldier. Sam's been training these past couple weeks. He's finally started to put his head into the game. Don't mess with him." His father ordered sternly, then stood, waiting for Dean's reply.

"Yessir." Dean replied automatically, a lifetime of ingrained habit far to strong to be overcome with the whispers of unease coursing through him caused by Sam's behavior.

"Good." John asserted. "Let's eat. Your brother will come in when he's finished." He turned and headed back into the kitchen, but Dean lingered at the doorway. Sighing, he eventually followed his father inside.

Sam finally made his way back through as Dean and John were finishing up their meal. Dean stood automatically, heading for the stove to start reheating Sammy's portion. "Hit the shower kiddo, I'll grab you a plate."

"Don't worry about it. I'm running late." Sam replied, as he started across the kitchen. "I'll miss the bus if I don't hurry. I'll just grab some coffee after I shower."

"You'll eat the food your brother made you, Sam. Shoulda run faster if you didn't want to miss your bus." John replied without looking up from his morning paper.

Dean tensed at the stove, swearing internally. Despite whatever Sam and John said about the last few weeks, there was no way things could really just be "fine". Trying to head off Sam's imminent explosion he turned around.

"It's not a big deal Dad. If Sammy's not hungry-"

"It's fine, Dean. I'll eat. Just lemme grab a shower." Dean was so surprised he let go of the spatula, the clunk echoing in the dead quiet kitchen.

He'd expected Sam to argue, berate their father for trying to control him, or accuse John of not caring whether or not Sam got to school on time.

He had not, however, anticipated this immediate, automatic agreement. Sam had on that impassive face again, that one that could win a poker tournament. Dean had seen Sam use that face before, with over enthusiastic guidance counselors and too-clever emergency room nurses.

He'd never seen Sam use it around him or their Dad, though.

Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably as Sam sat down at the table a few moments later and began mechanically eating his eggs and toast. Dean could have kept time by the regularity of his chewing, and he wondered if Sam was even tasting his breakfast.

"Is it..." He started to ask, but then stopped, glancing between John and Sam again, trying to feel his way through this confusing new family dynamic.

Sam glanced up again, almost as if he were surprised Dean were speaking to him. "The food's fine, Dean. Thanks." He added, as impersonally as he would thank a librarian for lending out a book to him.

Dean was really starting to despise that word.

"Great." Dean said, shifting to look at his brother. "Hey, look man, after we finish up, I'll give you a ride into town so you're not late." He offered, trying to make eye contact with Sam.

Sam shifted, looking anywhere but at his brother. "Nah, I'm cool. My own fault anyway." Sam said as he pushed away from the table and went to rinse his plate in the sink.

"No, Sammy, my Hollywood drama queen moment messed up your time. Lemme give you a ride."

Sammy just shrugged again, still not making eye contact.

"You're exhausted, Dean. You obviously drove straight through. Hit your rack. Sam can get himself to school." John said, as ever the final word around the Winchester dining table.

Or at least he normally would have been.

Dean was tired. He was sore. Eight hours horizontal was currently extremely high on his list of priorities.

But Dean was now absolutely certain something was wrong with Sammy. He hadn't spent the last sixteen years of the kid's life studying every inch of his face, every reaction, every emotion just to be fooled now by a couple of placating words.

"I said, I'm taking Sam to school." Dean enunciated as carefully as he could through gritted teeth. "It's _fine_." He couldn't help adding, not missing the tiny flinch from Sam as he said it.

"Sammy, grab your bag. Let's roll." Dean ordered, trying not to be even more alarmed when Sam simply _obeyed him_.

He hustled his younger brother out of the kitchen, purposefully ignoring the irritated look on his father's face as they left.

He practically buckled a bemused Sam into the passenger seat of the Impala, before taking his place behind the wheel.

The first couple miles passed in silence. If Dean had been with anyone else, it might have been described as peaceful. But Dean was with Sam. Sam, who he hadn't seen in nearly two weeks, who had to want to give Dean grief about leaving him with their father. Sam, who by rights should have a bible-length litany of complaints about John by now. Sixteen years worth of experience told Dean his little brother should be causing a scene that would make a Jersey cab driver proud.

Sam remained silent beside him, however, as impassive as he'd been since breakfast, since he'd been on the porch that morning. Dean had to fight down the urge to wrench the Impala over to the side of the road and shake his little brother until the words spilled out.

Dean couldn't fix whatever had gone down between Sam and John while he was away until Sam told him what it was.

But instead, he clenched his fingers tighter around the steering wheel, remembering his father's warning about undoing his hard work.

"You okay?" Sam asked in that flat, mild voice he'd been using all morning, as is _Dean_ were the one acting strangely. The same voice he might use to comment on the weather, or order a coke in a drive though. Dean hated it. It had none of Sam's usual inflections, gave away none of Sam's emotions. Sammy had always been the most open of any of the Winchesters, but now his voice was almost like that of a stranger.

Dean caved, then, jerking the car to the side of the road. He turned to Sam. "Cut the bullshit, Sammy. What the hell is going on with you and Dad? And don't give me anymore of this 'fine' crap, 'cause if I hear that word come out of your mouth one more time, I may make you eat it. So spill, what the hell's going on?" Dean's tirade left him breathing hard as he waited for Sam's response.

Sam looked at somewhat of a loss, as if Dean were yelling at him in Chinese and Sam was trying to translate strictly based on hand gestures.

"I think Dad was right, man. You shoulda hit your rack. I'm not sure what you're talking about. Dad and I are-" He stopped just shy of saying the word, most likely warned by the clenching of Dean's jaw.

Sam sighed. "You went on a hunt. I stayed and trained. Pretty straight forward." He said, looking for all the world as if he wished he had walked to school after all.

"No, see, _that_. That's what I'm talking about. Bed, Sam. You call it _bed_. Dad calls it a 'rack'. You hate that. Hate the military slang. And since when do you run for the hell of it, huh Sammy? You hate running. Practically the only thing you said to Dad this morning was 'yessir'. What the hell's with that?" Dean exploded.

Sam eyed his brother warily. "Dean..." A long moment passed. Sam turned to look out the window, as if the words came easier if they weren't face to face. "You were right." He said finally.

"Say what?" Dean replied, starting to wonder if he needed some holy water.

"You were right. Dad was right. I'm tired of fighting it. This is what our family does. We hunt the monsters. And the monsters don't really care about all this alpha-wolf family politics bullshit. I'm a hunter. I always have been. That's it. That's all there is. I just... don't see the point in fighting it anymore."

Sam sat back, looking straight out the window. Dean stared at his brother, completely speechless.

"I'm gonna be late for school." Sam said finally when Dean didn't start the car.

"Sammy..." Dean didn't even know where to start, how to begin to unravel the knot of words Sam had just let loose.

Sam didn't _give up_. He didn't just _give in_. What the hell could have gone down in the past twelve days that had his stubborn little brother saying "yessir" to their father while refusing to make eye contact with Dean?

"Let it go, Dean." Sam bit out. Reluctantly, Dean started the car and pulled back onto the road.

Sleep would have to wait.

He needed to talk to their Dad, ASAP.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N-And chapter three is up and running. Not a lot of forward motion, but I needed to finish fleshing out my characters so the story could start moving faster.**

**Reviews are Love**

**Disclaimer: Not my Sandbox**

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

**From the personal journal of John Henry Winchester**

_**August 4th, 1994**_

_**I wish for Mary now more than ever. I studied my son over the dinner table tonight. My first meal with the kids in far too long. He looks the same as he always has. He is shy, a gentle child, but stubborn to his core. He is still to small for his age. I reminded myself again to get his vaccinations up to date. Mary always handled all that with Dean. **_

_**I can discern nothing unusual about him, beyond his almost frightening intelligence. Yet there must be something about him. When I learned of the other children whose mothers had died the way my Mary did, I went in search of them. I felt like a predator as I watched them, boys and girls walking to school and playing in the park.**_

_**They look normal, ordinary.**_

_**So why did the demon single them out? What is his purpose? **_

_**And is it too late to save Sammy?**_

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean strode into the kitchen of the farmhouse, the warped screen door banging noisily behind him.

"Dad!" He called out loudly, seeing no sign of his father in the living room. He went down the hall to master bedroom. It too was empty.

_Why can I never find anyone in this goddamn house?_

Heart sinking, he finally spied a note next the the old fashioned telephone on the small entry way table.

**Dean- Pastor Jim called me about some suspicious drownings near Lake Manitoc. I'll call you if I need back up. Make sure your brother keeps up his training. Don't undo all my hard work.**

**Dad**

Dean swore loudly. He paced back and forth for a moment, indecisive. His father didn't like being disturbed on a hunt. Whenever John was on the scent of a new hunt, he always insisted on only being called in case of emergencies. He'd called in sometime over the next few days, still using the long established code for landlines they'd used in Dean's childhood. He wouldn't be happy to be bothered over something he would view as trivial. Dean was determined to speak to him about Sam, however. His unease over the morning events had him needing to hear his father's voice. Something felt wrong, and Dean had learned to listen to his instincts years ago. Finally, he ripped out his cell and dialed the number by memory.

"Winchester." His father's impersonal greeting told Dean that John was still driving, answering the private line without checking the number, since only a handful of trusted people had it.

"Dad, it's me-" Dean started, only to be immediately interrupted.

"You should be in bed by now." John said, the ever present thread of command weaving through his words. Dean felt that same, immediate need to apologize, to obey, that he felt whenever John used that tone. He knew, however, that his tired mind would not allow him to sleep until he had dealt with his concerns regarding Sammy.

"Yeah, Dad, no, I will in just a few minutes sir. It's just..." He trailed off, uncertain how to approach the subject.

Hearing the worry in his older son's voice, John's voice sharpened in concern. "What is it Dean? Has something happened?"

Dean scrubbed his hand down his face tired. "It's Sam. What exactly happened while I was away? What kinda training were you doing Dad, cause the kid's acting all kinds of weird."

"Dean." His father sighed in exasperation. "You have to stop mother henning that boy. He'll be seventeen soon. You had already left school and were hunting full time at seventeen."

"Dad..." Dean pressed on, determined to get some concrete answers.

John sighed louder, irritation clear in his voice. "Nothing happened other than what you already knew about, Dean. I've increased Sam's physical training. It's good for him, gives him and outlet for all that teenage angst. And he'll need these skills to survive once he's hunting full time. Do you really want some rogue poltergeist to take him out just because I let him slack off on his training?"

Dean winced, visions of knives and broken glass and blood flashing through his mind at his father's words. "No, of course not, but Dad..."

John interrupted him again. "And it's working Dean. Sammy pushed back for the first couple of days, but then he got with the program. Eventually we might actually make a hunter out of him."

Dean frowned. "Just like that. Just...overnight? One minute, same old drama queen Sammy, and then suddenly the next day he's GI Sam?" He asked disbelievingly.

John snorted. "Dean, I think you seriously underestimated how much work went into this process. Now, enough chit-chat. Didn't you say you wished Sam would get his ass in line? Stop trying to pit you against me? Stop making everything that much harder?"

Dean was silent for a moment. He had said that, it was true. Sammy had a habit of making everything twice the process it should have been. If he didn't straighten up and start taking orders, he was gonna get killed. Dean knew first hand what could happen if you disobeyed an order.

"He just didn't seem like himself." His finished lamely. Christ, wasn't that the understatement of the _year_.

"Good." His father said decisively. "It was time he started growing up. You have to let him, Dean. Coddling just makes him weak, and being weak makes him a target. Monsters don't care about college and prom, Dean. You know that, that's why you left all that crap behind. Excess baggage just slows you down. Now, hit your rack solider. That's an order."

"Yes, sir." Dean answered instinctively, even as his mind raced with a hundred unfinished arguments.

With that his father disconnected, leaving Dean staring at his own reflection in the old, battered mirror hanging in the hall way.

He studied his face for a moment, taking note of the worry still evident on his features. He closed his eyes and swallowed, getting a grip on himself.

Dad was right. _He knew Dad was right_. Dean would hit the sack, and Sam would come home and have dinner with Dean, and everything would seem more normal. Change was good, it kept you on your toes, kept you alive.

This was in Sam's best interest.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam headed out the door of his high school, glancing up into the late September sun. He had loved autumn as a child, the scent of the leaves, the pumpkins and the return to school.

That had been before, of course. Before he had learned the dark undercurrents to such seemingly harmless things as Halloween and Harvest-time.

Before he had been expected to be someone who hunted the monsters that roamed the night.

He sighed deeply, emotionally girding himself to return home. Dean's early return had thrown him though, in retrospect, he really shouldn't have been surprised. Dean wouldn't side against Dad for the sake of Sam, but Sam never doubted how deep Dean's love ran.

Dean just couldn't see how twisted love really was, at least in their family. He couldn't grasp that love could destroy just as much as it could protect. Some things couldn't be taught, though. Sam knew this instinctively.

He's read a saying somewhere- "Birds born in cages think flying is an illness". That was Dean, to the core of his being. Determined and stubborn and so, so scared.

Sam wasn't sure how to teach him to fly.

He sighed again, and started walking, preferring the quiet walk to the overcrowded bus. His mind lost in thought, his long legs quickly ate up the miles, though a persistent coughing fit, had his pushing to buy a bottle of water at the tiny gas station at the edge of town. He'd have to make sure Dean didn't pick up on the cough. He'd run a mild fever on and off the past few days, never higher than a degree or so, and he was determined that a cold wouldn't wayside him from his chosen course of action.

Things were so much easier when you just didn't make yourself care anymore.

It was almost like being free.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean stirred, sleepily, rousing at the sounds of the shower running. He blinked blearily at his watch, sitting up quickly when he saw it was after six.

Shit.

He had meant to pick up Sam from school and run through training with him, then get started on dinner. He couldn't be sure, but this morning he'd thought Sam had looked a little thinner than before he'd left. As a young child, Sammy hadn't hesitated to let Dean know if he was hungry. Around eight, though (when he'd discovered just how precarious their money situation really was sometimes) he'd become forcibly silent on the issue, seemingly ambivalent to whether he even ate meals sometimes.

Added to his recent growth spurts over the past few years, Sam could swing from lean to downright skinny in a frighteningly short period of time. Dean grimaced, thinking of what Sam probably would have been eating if left to his own devices.

He stumbled out of the bedroom just as Sam emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. Dean frowned again. Not only had Sammy lost some weight, but there were some pretty nasty bruises scattered over his brother's visible body.

"Dude!" Dean exclaimed, gripping his brother and turning him to face Dean. Dean leaned down to examine one of the worst, along Sam's right side.

"Obstacle course?" he asked finally, hoping that's all it was. Surely Dad and Sam didn't grab a hunt without him as back up, right?

"It fought back." Sam said easily, tensing for just a moment as his brother's hand traced the bruise lightly. Dean had never developed a sense of personal space when it came to Sam's body, having changed diapers, held hands crossing streets, and later on caring for injuries. He doubted Dean even realized how hands on he got with Sam now and then.

Oblivious to the look of mild amusement on Sam's face, Dean continues to turn Sam in a complete circle, not stopping until he was satisfied he had taken note every one. Sam both relished the attention and hated the invasion of personal space by turns.

"Dude." Dean said again, shaking his head as he straightened. "Did you even ice them?" He eyed Sam intently.

Sam shrugged that same half shrug he had favored that morning. "Just bruises." He replied.

_Dad didn't let him._

Dean translated Sam's words easily, though nothing in Sam's face gave his thoughts away.

Dean scowled. There was toughening his brother up, and then there was just using common sense. Bruises were injuries, and needed to be treated responsibly, so they didn't hinder you on your next hunt. Dad had taught Dean that himself.

Besides, those must have hurt like a bitch.

Dean sighed. "Too late now. They're too old for ice to do any good. They still hurt?"

"Nah." Sam answered and Dean searched his features for a lie. Either the kid was telling the truth or Dean was seriously going to take him to the next poker game he found.

"Right. Well, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you should have waited to hit the shower until after your training from Dad. He's headed to someplace named Lake Manitoc, by the way. Wherever the hell that is."

"I know." Sam said, moving into the bedroom and pulling on clothes. "Saw the note. And I already did my training. Hence the second shower." His voice was muffled slightly as he pulled a worn t-shirt over his head, and Dean made a mental note to make sure they grabbed up some new ones. Sammy had grown yet again, and besides, with school back in session, they didn't need anyone at the school thinking they couldn't afford to clothe Sam.

"All of it?" Dean said suspiciously. He didn't think Sam would lie about it, complaining and bargaining with Dean had always been more his style.

Sammy looked at him with one raised eyebrow. "Yeah, Dean. All of it. I've been home a couple hours now."

Dean flushed guiltily. "Yeah, sorry about that. Meant to swing by and grab you up. I overslept."

"You needed the sleep. I didn't need the ride. No worries." Sam said, heading back out to the living room, a book of lore in one hand.

"Oh, okay. Um, homework then?" Dean asked, feeling off balance, like he hadn't been in charge of Sam's after school activities since the kid started Kindergarten.

"Study Hall." Sam supplied, settling gracefully into the worn arm chair, opening the book the the place-marked chapter. Leaning forward, Dean could see the book was written in Latin and he rolled his eyes.

"Okay, I'll start dinner then. How's spaghetti sound?" He asked, throwing out the first thing that came to mind. Spaghetti was quick, easy and filling. They both could use the carbs.

Sam looked up, surprised. "Oh, no, it's cool man. I'll just grab a sandwich or something later."

Back on more solid footing with picky-eating Sammy behavior, Dean snarked "Seriously, Sammy? I'm starving. I'm making spaghetti. You're eating spaghetti."

Sam watched him warily for a moment. "Sure Dean. Whatever you say." He said finally, as if the food he ate had no personal bearing on him whatsoever.

Dean's frustration with this pea-pod Sam started leaking through despite his best intentions.

Dean rolled his eyes as he went back into to kitchen.

_Whatever you say Dean._

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dinner was an easy affair, both boys tucking in, Dean making sure to keep Sam's plate full. Sam gave him a look that said he knew what his big brother was doing, but didn't say a word.

Dean found himself enjoying the quiet moment with his brother. Lately their meals had been full of tense silences and half arguments over orders and hunting and Dad-Dad-Dad.

Sam started washing the dishes without Dean having to pitch a bitch, and gee, wasn't that refreshing too. Maybe Sam's new attitude really was a blessing in disguise.

Just then the phone rang once and stopped. Dean saw his brother freeze at the sink for the barest second, before continuing on to dry to last of the dishes. When the phone rang again, Dean answered readily.

"Hello." He said, careful to say nothing personal, even though he knew it was his father.

"Dean, you boys get packed up. This hunt's more involved than I expected, and Bobby's already lined up another. Take down this address, this is the motel. I'll call Sam's school in the morning."

Dean wrote the address on default, already dreading telling his brother they would have to leave only a few weeks into the new school year.

He hung up reluctantly and turned to face his brother.

Sam was staring at him with an odd look in his eyes, a look Dean recognized but couldn't quite place. Then without a word he walked out of the kitchen. His movements were quick, but not jerky or sharp, indicating no anger. Dean followed his brother into their bedroom as they both quickly packed out the few things that had managed to spread out. Both boys could break down camp, as John called it, in only a matter of minutes if needed.

Dean waited patiently for his little brother's explosion. New attitide or not, Dean knew how import his Junior year was to Sam. Sam was still holding out hope of taking college classes after highschool, if only part time, and it was his junior year grades those colleges would be looking at.

The anticipated explosion never came however, and Dean found himself tensing up more and more every moment his brother betrayed his expectations. Finally, he spoke first.

"Hey, Sam, it'll be cool man. This was a crap school anyway. You said yourself, they didn't even have AP classes. Moving on is for the best.

Sam turned around then. "All packed." He said simply. "You want me to clean out the fridge before we book out of here?"

Dean wasn't buying it. "Sammy..."

Sam shrugged. "It's cool, man. It is what it is."

Unease swam through Dean's veins once again.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Yay! Finally a little bit of supernatural action in this chapter! In case you didn't catch the notes I corrected in the first chapter, the new chapter estimate for this story is probably around fifteen chapters. The goal for this story is to have Sunday and Thursday updates.**

**If you are following my other AU WIP, "All the Pretty Monsters", the posting schedule for that story is currently Tuesdays.**

**This story is Beta'd by the amazing and patient Sand_AllyMayhem.**

**Please please please review. Reviews are love and cookies and pixie dust for authors. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine. **

"**Playmates"**

**From the personal journal of John Henry Winchester:**

_**December 8th, 1997**_

_**I haven't been home in nearly six weeks. I can tell Dean is growing frantic. I can't help it. I need more time to deal with what I've learned.**_

_**Demon's Blood.**_

_**Am I supposed to believe that my sweet, gentle Sam has demon blood in him? I refuse to believe my child is capable of such evil.**_

_**And yet...I cannot look him in the eye.**_

_**This is what Mary died trying to prevent. What if she was to late?**_

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean stared down at the array of newspaper clippings spread out before him. His father had been as thorough as usual, and there were over a dozen on the motel's wobbly table. Choosing one at random, he held it up for closer study.

"Twenty-nine year old man drowns, seven year child soul survivor. Is ancient man-eating lake monster to blame?..."

"Seriously? Lake monster? What kind of lame ass idea is that? And who the hell is Izzy Alexander? Half of these articles were wrote by the guy? Are we sure the guy's not some kind of fruitcake? What kind of man calls himself Izzy?" He tossed the clipping down in frustration.

Sam glanced up at him. "Probably the kind that's not a guy." He said calmly, before turning the next page in the book he had in front of him.

"Oh." Dean pursed his lips in thought. Then he grinned. "Think she's hot?" He asked Sam with a suggestive wink.

"I think..." He turned another page methodically, "That she's hunting a lake monster." He slammed the book closed with finality.

He stood up to cross the room to his duffel. Sam hoped to grab another dose of cough medicine while Dean was occupied with the potential hook up with the potentially hot reporter hunting the potential lake monster. Standing he casually slipped the bottle of cold pills into his pocket and walked to the bath room, running some water into the cheap plastic cup by the basin.

"Well, hot or not," Dean raised his voice to be heard over the running water in the bathroom. "This doesn't sound like any kind of lake monster I've ever heard of." For a minute, he thought he heard the sound of Sam coughing. "Hey, you all right in there?"

"No." Sam's voice sounded garbled, and Dean instinctively rose, heading towards the bathroom to check on him. At the door he and Sam practically ran into each other, Sam jerking his head back so fast he knocked his head on the door frame.

"What the hell, man?" Sam asked, his expression half-perplexed and half-scowl.

"You tell me, you're the one who said you needed help!" Dean scowled back reflexively, hands already reaching out to check the back of Sam's head.

Sam ducked to the side, frowning at Dean in confusion. "No, I didn't." He replied, looking at Dean as if Dean had been the one to hit his head.

"Dude, you totally did." Dean argued, gesturing with his hands to make his point.

"Noooo, I'm pretty sure I didn't" Sam's bitch face was only of shadow of what it used to be, but Dean relaxed a little at the sight, nonetheless.

"Sam, I asked you if you were all right, and you said no." Dean said, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Sam just shook his head. "No, Dean, I said _no_, it's not a lake monster. The police did a full sonar sweep of the lake after Sophie was killed. Twice. No bodies, no cave, no monster. Whatever it is, it's incorporeal."

Dean frowned. "Well, that narrows it down to just about everything but lake monsters."

Sam paced, hands shoved deep inside his jacket pockets. "We need more intel. I've checked all the local lore, all the Native American legends for this area. Nothing. This is strictly the last thirty years or so."

"You thinking the library?" Dean asked with a grimace. Man, he hated research.

"I think we need a witness." Sam said slowly.

"Good luck with that." Dean said sarcastically. "I've got twelve news articles on that table reading 'no survivors'". He gestured to the table tiredly and sat on his bed. Their father had charted a boat to take him around the lake and witness some of the crime scenes. He'd be back anytime now and Dean didn't have squat to report.

"No." Sam disagreed slowly.

He glanced up at his big brother, a searching look in his eye. "Eleven of these read 'no survivors'. This one," He held up the article Dean had been looking at just a few moments before, "Say's there was one. A kid, ummm, Lucas. Lucas Barr. Apparently saw his father drown." Sam watched Dean's reaction intently.

Dean scowled again. "And then it mentions he was so traumatized, he hasn't spoken since, Sam. Kinda makes for an unreliable witness."

Sam shrugged. "That or we get a Ouija Board and have ourselves a seance."

Dean stood and started pacing again. "No. No way. We're not interrogating some seven year old kid who watched his parent get killed. No."

Sam squared off, facing him, voice and posture relaxed, as if he were making a case for choosing what movie to go see. "Dean, I don't see what other choice we have. People are dying. We can't hunt it til we now what we're hunting. We gear up for the wrong flavor of monster, more people are just going to get killed."

"No." Dean fumed, crossing his arms angrily.

Just then, they heard the key turning in the lock as John entered the room. He eyed both boys, seemingly satisfied with the reactive stances they had automatically assumed at his entry.

"What have we got?" He ordered, straight to the point as always. He'd had a long day out on the water, and he only hoped that the boy's had had more luck.

Dean opened his mouth and shut it again quickly, reluctant to admit their failure to John.

Sam cut in just as Dean was working up his courage to finally reply. "We may have a witness." He refused to meet Dean's angry eyes.

"May?" John questioned, one brow lifted, his tone clearly stating that he was through with the dancing around.

Sam swallowed heavily, and Dean took the opportunity to cut _him_ off this time.

'It's a little kid, Dad. Not only is he seven, but he's so messed up from seeing his Dad die, he's not even talking. To anyone." He finished, voice losing steam as he watched emotions flicker and fade quickly across his father's face.

His father glanced speculatively between Dean and Sam for a moment before turning to face Sam.

"Sammy, you think you can get anything usable out of the kid?" John asked.

Dean opened his mouth to object but Sam was already answering. "I don't want to read another obit because I didn't try." Dean snapped his mouth shut, fuming silently.

John nodded. "Fair enough. I know which kid your talking about. I've seen his mom take him to the park a couple of times. His grandfather's the damned Sheriff, though, so I've been hesitant to make a move. You boys might have better luck. Dean, you try distracting the mom, she's a looker, you won't have to try to hard to flirt." Dean sputtered while Sam snickered quietly behind him.

"Sammy, see what you can get out of the kid. I'm gonna hit the Sheriff's station again. Something about that man doesn't sit right with me, but I just can't put my finger on it. Call me if you boys run into any trouble."

John went into the bathroom and closed the door. Dean stood for a moment in the center of the room, attempting to understand what had just happened.

His Dad had just totally over ruled his opinion in favor of Sammy's idea, an idea, by the way, which was so UN-Sammy like he couldn't believe his gentle baby brother had even suggested it. Suddenly realizing that Sam had left the room while he'd been lost in thought, he grabbed his car keys and jacket then hurried out of the room, slamming the door behind him to engage the lock.

Quickening his pace to catch up to Sam, who had already nearly reached the Impala, he swung him around angrily.

"What the hell was that?" He yelled, shoving Sam a little for good measure.

"You totally blew off everything I said in there. And since when do you think it's acceptable to interrogate emotionally scarred second graders? What the hell is up with you Sam?"

Sam just stared at Dean for a moment and then shook his head.

"Look, Dean, I don't know what your problem is, but I just want to finish the hunt. People are dying, and it's escalating. Sophie was eighteen, Dean. That's only a year older than me, and she was the third death this year. You're the one who's always talking up how important our job is, how we're saving people. I'm just doing my job, Dean." Sam studied his older brother. His entire speech had been almost incredulous, as if he couldn't quite wrap his mind around what Dean was saying.

"Dad agreed with me, Dean. I know you got a thing about kids, man, if you don't wanna go, it's cool. I'll go by myself, we can just hook up at the library later or something." Sam paused, waiting for Dean's response.

"Like hell!" Dean growled in frustration. Their Dad had given an order, and even if he hadn't, Dean wasn't leaving Sam alone in this creepy town with potential lake monsters and crazy journalists.

"Come on, Sammy. We're going to the damn park."

He got in the driver's side of the Impala, slamming the door shut behind him. Sam got in with much less fanfare, as calm and implacable as he'd been the entire last three days.

As he started his baby, he wondered just when during the last two weeks his kind-hearted younger brother had started to put the hunt above the people they were saving.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the trees, glinting off the lake in the distance as the boys approached the playground. Sharing a meaningful look, they split up, working in well practiced unison.

Sam leaned casually against a large oak tree, scanning the playing children until he finally recognized Lucas. He was sitting on the ground at the foot of the bench farthest from the other children. He was using the seat of the bench as a desk of sorts, and looked to be drawing something.

Sam waited until he could see Dean engaged with Lucas's mom in an animated conversation, before strolling over to the bench. He considered trying to sit cross legged beside Lucas, but decided against it. He'd reached 6'2 just last month, and legs that long weren't exactly easy to fold like a pretzel. He settled for sitting at the far end of the bench, easing his legs out before him.

Lucas stiffened, but didn't look at him. Sam remained silent, not making eye contact or any other threatening actions. Instead, he steadfastly stared out at the placid beauty of the water, idly wondering what hid beneath.

Eventually Lucas relaxed, resuming his almost frantic drawing. Sam studied the pictures out of the corner of his eye. They were good, or at least he thought they were, he didn't really remember how talented he'd been at seven.

Finally judging the moment right, he started by offering a simple "Hi, Lucas. My name's Sam."

The boy remained silent, pausing only a moment before returning to his picture.

"What are you drawing?" Sam tried again, hoping Dean hadn't been right and he was needlessly torturing a kid with PTSD.

Lucas still refused to respond, and Sam began to consider his other options.

"_Come play with me." _

Sam started, turning to locate the source of the voice. No other children were near them. No one was anywhere near them, in fact.

"_Come play with me." _

The voice had a strange, echoing quality to it, and Sam felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He looked at Lucas, who's eyes had widened dramatically. The boy was staring out at the lake, and Sam followed his gaze. He could discern no disturbance, nothing that appeared out of the ordinary. His skin continued to break out in gooseflesh, however, and Sam swore the temperature dropped ten degrees.

"You hear it too, don't you, Lucas?" He said calmly, trying not to startle the frightened boy any more. Lucas finally made eye contact with Sam but remained silent.

Sam crouched down beside Lucas, voice more urgent now. "Lucas, I'm here with my family. My father and my brother. We help people. People like you. I know you think no one will believe you, but I promise, we can help. You just have to let us."

Lucas only shook his head a little, biting his lip and Sam sighed. Lucas had been too frightened for too long to help them now. At least Sam now had a basic idea of what they were dealing with. Disembodied voices and cold spots usually meant ghost activity.

"Sam!" Dean and Lucas's mom were hurrying over to them, finally picking up on the obvious discomfort of the two boys.

"You okay?" Dean asked, pushing right up into Sam's space, searching Sam's face for some clue as to Sam's disturbance. Sam just nodded a little, reluctant to say more in front of Lucas's mom. Dean nodded imperceptibly, acknowledging Sam's message.

Smiling widely, he stepped back, smoothly segueing from protective big brother into smooth operator.

"Sam, this is Andrea Barr." He smiled faintly at the worried looking brunette.

She studied him for a moment before smiling reluctantly in return. "I don't suppose he spoke to you?" She asked, with only traces of faint hope in her voice.

"He doesn't seem to be much of a conversationalist." Sam offered apologetically and her shoulders sagged a moment before she resolutely straightened them.

"That's okay." She said. "He'll get there. When he's ready. Well, we'd better be going. It was nice to meet you Sam, Dean." She smiled once more before helping Lucas pack up his paper and crayons. Right before he left, he shoved a crumpled paper into Sam's startled hands. Andrea shepherded him out of the park while the two boys watched.

"It's a ghost." Sam said quietly, as the boys walked back to the car.

"How do you know?" Dean responded. "I thought he didn't talk to you."

"He didn't. But not because he can't. He's scared, Dean. He's scared of the ghost." Sam replied as they got into the car.

"And you know this, how?" Dean repeated in frustration.

Sam hesitated. "He's hearing him, Dean. Lucas is hearing the ghost."

Dean's eyes widened. "And just how did you figure this out, braniac?"

Sam licked his lips nervously. "I heard it, too." He didn't meet Dean's eyes. "I heard the ghost call out to Lucas."

"You what?" Dean exploded, voice echoing in the confines of the car.

Sam winced at Dean's volume, still refusing to make eye contact. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, and he couldn't help but think back over everything he had learned while Dean was away.

Had it all been true?

"Sam, answer me, damn it! What the hell do you mean, you heard it? I didn't hear anything, what the hell was it-" Dean was cut off mid rant by the shrill ringing of his phone.

"This conversation isn't over!" Dean said threateningly to Sam before answering.

"You got me!" His voice showed his irritation at being interrupted. Suddenly, his voice changed.

"What? How long ago? Right, Sammy and I will meet you back at the room. We..." His eyes slid over to Sam for a moment, but Sam refused to engage. "Let's just say Sam's interview was...enlightening."

The conversation ended abruptly.

"Damn it!" Dean swore, smacking his palm against the steering wheel.

"What happened?" Sam asked, finally looking at Dean.

"They just found another body." Dean said with quiet anger. He hated the feeling of blood on his hands, hating feeling like they'd failed someone else.

"Who?" Sam asked with low intensity.

"Sophie's older brother, Will. They just found him a few moments ago." Dean replied, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the headrest.

Sam shook his head in confusion. "I can't believe Will would have got into that lake after what he saw happen to his sister."

"They didn't find him in the lake, Sammy. He drowned in his kitchen sink." Dean answered, turning his head to look at his brother.

Sam couldn't hold his gaze, and for one moment, he felt the crazy urge to just let all the words bubble out of him, his hurt, his anger, his fear, all the things that had happened.

But then he remembered hearing the ghost's voice. He remembered what he had read, and he swallowed down the words. He locked them away deep inside and blew out a long deep breath.

"We'd better go meet up with Dad." Sam offered finally.

Dean watched him for another moment before starting the car. As they drove, Sam looked down at the crinkled paper Lucas had given him right before Andrea had led him away. Smoothing the wrinkles, he studied the picture for a moment. A stick figure lay in a pool of blue, and the clear symbolism wasn't lost on Sam.

He wondered who the figure was supposed to be.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Can I get an amen for how quick this chapter came out? I got a bonus day off, so you guys get a bonus chapter. And I got my other WIP, "All the Pretty Monsters" updated this morning, too, so this is crazy.**

**Please please please review, and visit my profile to check out my other stories.**

**As Always,**

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: Did you see me up there with my arms and legs wrapped around them during panel at Comic Con? No? That's because they're not mine...**

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

**From the personal journal of John Henry Winchester**

_**January 2nd, 1998**_

"_**I find myself watching Sammy all the time now. Dissecting every action, every response. I shouldn't. I know it's wrong. If there is any hope at all for my child, it will not be in casting him as the villain. I must strive to see the good inside him, not just the latent evil. I must be absolute and steadfast. Neither of the boys must ever find out. I will increase their training. I will remain watchful, and continue my research. The alternative is unthinkable."**_

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam closed the motel door behind him silently, thankful for once that the hinges weren't cursed with that tell-tale squeak common of rooms his family tended to favor.

He stood in the early morning fog, stretching. His dad and Dean were both still asleep. Sam was actually surprised he'd managed to make it past both of them, with their hunters instincts. He knew, however, that Dean had been exhausted and John more than half-drunk by the time they had gone to bed last night.

He stared off into the distance for a moment, planning his route across the small town. The motel, like practically everything else thereabouts, had a view of Lake Manitoc, and Sam could still see steam rising in the pre-dawn chill.

Setting off, he headed towards what served as 'downtown' for the small community, passing tiny storefronts still hours from opening. From somewhere up ahead, he could smell coffee and the smell of bacon, and he guessed the town's lone diner kept earlier hours than most of it's neighbors.

Speeding up to keep time with the changing music on his walkman, he increased his pace till he was almost flying along, a lone figure in an empty landscape. The lake was to his right now, and the water kept reflecting glimmers of daybreak into his eyes. Passing the motel, he noted that their room was still dark, and a quick check of his cell phone showed no missed calls, so he decided to indulge himself in another lap around the town. He wasn't eager to return to the too small motel room with his larger than life brother and father crammed inside.

Things had been tense, last night. Dean had been upset that Sam had somehow managed to hear the ghost while he hadn't heard anything. Sam had a theory, of course, as to why he had heard the spirit, but he couldn't exactly share it. Their father, of course, had remained silent of the subject of Sam's new found ghost whispering ability.

Sam hadn't expected anything less.

Dean had wanted to move motels, setting up base in another town nearby, further from the lake. Uncomfortable with Sam hearing the ghost from as far away as the playground, he had argued that it was the safest course of action. John had deemed it unnecessary, which had left Dean fuming, a sight both bizarre and slightly appealing to Sam.

Sam had offered no real input on the situation, simply agreeing with whatever John had said, then turning his own mind to the problem of identifying the ghost. Sam was certain it had been a child's voice yesterday, and the locale (playground) and his companion (a child) also confirmed this suspicion. But no matter where they looked, they could find no record of a drowning victim that fit the profile. There had been two boating accidents involving children in the past ten years, but nothing further back than that. Until recently, Lake Manitoc had been almost blessed with good luck in regards to the safety of it's citizens. All the other drowning victims were adults, or, almost, in Sophie and Will's cases.

Slowing as he once again neared the drive to the motel, he came to a stop, leaning over his knees, breathing hard. Pulling his headphones off his ears, he listened to the ringing silence. Feeling a coughing fit coming on, he walked slowly away from the motel again. With his luck, Dean would come out right while Sam was having a coughing attack, and go into over protective big brother mode all over again. Then John would get mad, and somehow it would be Sam's fault, and Sam was having none of it anymore.

He was done with all that. Approaching the waters edge, he noticed a dock a little ways away, with a drinking fountain at the end where it met the street. He walked over and gratefully gulped down the cool water, taking a moment to swallow down another couple of cold pills. He made a mental reminder to himself to grab more at the pharmacy before they left town, he didn't want to be stuck in a car with Dean for hours while he coughed and Dean fussed.

Walking out onto the dock, he studied the lake in the early morning stillness. He spent a moment enjoying the feeling of being the only person in the world. The water was a smooth mirror reaching out into the horizon.

He cast his mind back to yesterday, at the playground. Finally letting himself think about it, to _feel_ about it. He locked everything done tightly yesterday, in front of Lucas and Dean and John. Now, though, he allowed himself to go over the memory again slowly, examining his impressions, his feelings.

It had frightened Sam. He'd heard voices before, of course. Cold spots, knocking, flickering lights, EVP, all were common in hauntings. But being the only one who heard something because he was the only one in the room was different than being surrounded by a crowd of people and still being the only one who heard anything, and Sam knew it.

So did Dean.

He hadn't let Dean see just how much it frightened him, though. Because part of the reason it frightened him so much was because it just seemed to solidify everything Sam had read. He had vowed never to tell Dean the truth about himself, couldn't bear to see the hate and disgust on Dean's face as he learned his little brother's true nature.

His father's darkest secrets and worst fears cast into the light.

Something was wrong with Sam. Very, very wrong, and it had been for a long time.

Forcing his thoughts back to their more pressing issue, he studied the lake once again with a more critical eye. Nestled between the mountains, Lake Manitoc was created by a dam at it's far end. The dam was failing though, and budgetary shortfalls meant that soon the Lake would be non-existent. If whatever ghost they were hunting was based in the lake, that could be the reason for it's escalation.

They hadn't been able to find the link between the victims yet, though Sam had a nagging feeling they were missing something.

Lost in his thoughts, he failed at first to register the drop in the temperature. Suddenly realizing he had quickly gone from sweaty to clammy, he stiffened as his breath came out in a frozen cloud in front of him. One part of him wanted to run back to the hotel as fast as he could, screaming for Dean.

He stood his ground, however, instead bracing his feet and waiting. It obviously wanted something. Perhaps Sam could figure it out.

"_Come play with me." _

The voice was as eery as it had been the first time Sam had heard it, and he repressed the urge to shudder at the sound, the unnatural _wrongness_ of it. He could smell the ghost now too, wet and damp, rank with mildew and things left to long in the dark.

If this was what was happening to Lucas all the time, no wonder he was nearly catatonic.

The thought of Lucas spurred Sam on, and he stepped out closer to the end of the dock. He knew how dangerous it was, he was alone and clearly on the ghost's home turf. But they had been doing nothing but hitting dead ends and counting corpses for three days now.

It was time to up the ante a little.

"Tell me who you are?" He called out, proud that his voice didn't shake, didn't hesitate. Sam did wish for a gun with some salt rounds about then, though.

"What do you want?" Sam tried again. He didn't expect to get a reply. He was more certain than ever now that the ghost was the spirit of a child. It probably wasn't interested in conversation.

It appeared to be very interested in Sam, however.

Sam felt as much as he heard the impact from underneath the dock. Caught off guard, he went to his hands and knees, twisting his head around vainly to try to get a sight line on the spirit. It failed to appear, though,and with a second _thud_, the dock shuddered again.

Sam did his best to simply hold on. He was fairly certain that as long as he wasn't touching the water, he was safe.

Probably.

He held his breath, waiting the the spirit to make it's next move.

Waited.

Waited.

A ripple in the water to his right cast a fracture of light into his eyes, and he turned his head, searching for the cause of the disturbance. The water undulated smoothly, the top looking almost oily, a rainbow of colors swirling across the top.

Sam frowned, leaning forward despite his best intentions.

The colors almost seemed to form...pictures?

Before Sam's eyes the colors danced and changed. As he watched, the almost-images seemed to solidify, forming a silent movie, frozen in place yet rising and falling gently with the motion of the water.

The details were vague, but Sam could make out what appeared to be a child, a boy, he thought, maybe ten or so. He was pushing a red bicycle, and as Sam watched he, looked up, tensing as something or someone approached.

Sensing that he was nearing the heart of the matter, Sam leaned even closer to the water.

He could almost make out the child's face...

"Sammy!" The sudden voice in his ear, the rough hand on his shoulder, pulling him back nearly gave Sam a heart attack, and he fell back onto his butt in the center of the dock.

The images in the water dissolved as if they had never been, and Sam found himself face to face with a furious and terrified Dean.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean had awoken slowly to the nagging feeling of something being _wrong_.

The room was quiet and dim still, the sounds of his father's gentle snoring nearly reassuring Dean back into sleep.

Suddenly he shot straight up as memories of yesterday's incident at the playground flooded his mind.

Sam.

Sam talking to that kid, Lucas, and then the two of them hearing the ghost when no one else could.

Sam hearing something Dean couldn't, even though he was only a few yards away.

The whisper quick look of fear that had flashed across Sammy's face.

_Sammy._

Dean couldn't hear Sam.

Turning, he saw the empty bed beside him and he cussed quietly. He had half a mind to start putting that damned kid on a leash.

Groaning, he got off from the floor. Sam had offered to take the pallet on the ground, had nearly insisted on it, as much as he insisted on anything these days, anyway.

Dean had remembered the bruises still covering his younger brother's body, though, and wouldn't have anything to do with it, finally threatening to tuck Sam in with a story if he didn't put himself in the other bed. Had the room had two queens, they probably would have just shared, it certainly not being the first time. The room contained two twins unfortunately, and the bed had barely managed to hold Sam by himself.

Now as he hurriedly pulled on his jeans and boots, he debated whether to wake their father. He was still upset with John for dismissing his concerns last night, though.

As uncomfortable as it was to be at odds with their father (was this how Sam felt all the time?) he couldn't quite bring himself to wake John up, instead deciding to go look for Sam on his own. He could always come back for reinforcements if he needed them.

Though he didn't intend on needing them.

Opening the motel door, he squinted into the dawn, wishing he had grabbed a pair of sunglasses. Not willing to waste the time to go back into the room, he went ahead and jogged down to the edge of the parking lot. Checking the Impala for any sign of Sam, he then ventured out to the sidewalk. Scanning both sides of the street yielded no evidence of Sam. Dean belatedly thought to pull out his cell phone and dial Sam's number.

The cell phone was a fairly recent acquisition for Sam. Dean had insisted on it shortly they had started leaving Sam alone two years ago when he and John had taken out of town hunts. They had returned early one night, and Sam hadn't been home yet. He'd only been at the library, but it had still given Dean fits.

Sam only used it when he wasn't somewhere with a land line, though, since minutes were so expensive. John had bitched about the extra cost of getting Sam his own phone, so unbeknownst to Sam, Dean had paid the bill himself, that first month and then every month after. It was worth it to Dean, at moments like this when he needed to locate his brother-_fast_.

It rang without answer, though, before going to voice mail, and Dean cursed again, slamming it shut. Picking a direction on instinct, he headed towards the lake. The water seemed to be the source of most of Dean's recent problems.

Dean's logic held, and as he neared he could see a dock up ahead. A figure was crouched on one side, looking down into the water and Dean's heart skipped a beat.

"Sam!" He cried, breaking into a run again. Sam didn't react, seemingly lost in whatever he was staring at.

He leaned even closer to the surface of the water and this time Dean's heart nearly crawled up his throat and out his mouth.

"Sammy!" He cried again, both louder and closer, but Sam still didn't react.

Dean could smell the water now, wet and dank and far to strong. He could feel the drop in the temperature as he neared his brother and now Dean was flat out running towards his kid, every instinct screaming danger-Sammy-danger-save-PROTECT.

He reached Sam just as Sam's finger tips brushed the surface of the water, and Dean hauled him back with him to the center of the dock. Sam was so startled he fell onto his ass, blinking at Dean in confusion, almost as if he were only just now waking up.

"Dean?" He asked, voice dripping confusion and alarm, and Dean exploded, fear making him stronger than normal as he hauled his little brother off the dock as if Sammy were a misbehaving five year old.

Dean didn't stop once they reached the street, instead dragging Sam behind him another several yards, until more than a hundred feet separated them from the water.

Stopping, he swung around, barely resisting the urge to take s swing at Sam for frightening him so badly.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" Dean roared, clenching his fists in a last ditch attempt to contain his shaking.

"I..." Sam trailed off, breathing heavy and still looking lost.

Dean noticed he was shaking, face gone white as a sheet. Cursing again, he tore off his jacket and wrapped his brother up in the warm leather, giving in to the urge to touch him, to reassure Dean that he'd gotten there in time.

He rubbed Sam's arms and sides vigorously, the rest of his anger melting away as the depth of his brothers confusion registered with him.

"That thing must have some major mojo to lay a whammy like that on you Sam! What the hell were you thinking, going out by yourself, out on to the dock no less! Didn't you hear me calling you!" Dean asked, more gently now as he led his shocky brother to their room.

"No. No. I didn't hear anything...but..." He trailed off, biting his lip.

"But..." Dean urged as gently as his impatience would allow. They were nearly to the room, now. Dean needed to get Sam out of his damp clothes. Sam had been jogging again, by the looks of things.

Dean had started to wish Sam still hated jogging as much as he used to.

"I..." Sam's reply was fractured by a cough and Dean frowned. It sounded harsh and wet and deeper than Dean liked.

That was all they needed on top on Sammy apparently being ghost-bait for this particular baddie.

"How long you been coughing, Sammy?" Dean asked, trying to think back and remember if Sam had seemed sick at any point over the last few days. Nothing sprang to mind, at least not since Dean's return.

"What? No, no, it's nothing, Dean. Just give the medicine a minute to kick in. Dean, I saw-"

"What medicine?" Dean interrupted, feeling like he was steadily losing ground with all the new information being thrown at him so quickly.

Sam waved him off. "Not important. Dean, listen to me. _I SAW SOMETHING_. In the water. The ghost was trying to communicate with me."

"More like make you victim number four!" Dean snarled as he dragged Sam into the motel room behind him and slammed the door.

Their father looked up, startled, a coffee cup half-way to his mouth. His brows came together.

"Well." He said, sitting the cup down. "Looks like we have a break in the case."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

John sat at the table watching his sons interact as they told the story. He'd had to wait, much to his annoyance, as Dean had bundled Sam into the shower to warm him up nearly the moment they had burst in the door.

Now Sam sat in front of him, in a clean set of clothes, a towel hanging around his neck to catch the runoff from his hair. He had a coffee cup in his hands, and John watched him twist it idly without drinking much of the hot liquid.

Dean noticed as well and stopped his pacing to scold Sammy. "Drink your damn coffee, already Sammy. We don't need you getting a migraine on top of everything else." He muttered before resuming his pacing.

Sam's shoulders tightened for a second before John watched as Sam forced himself to relax.

John nodded approvingly. Sam was really coming along. It had been foolish, of course, to go out on the dock alone, but Sam had managed to contact the entity, confirming positively that it was indeed a ghost, and the ghost of a child to boot.

Dean was being a problem this morning, unfortunately.

Sometimes John regretted all the times he had left Sammy in Dean's care. He hadn't felt he had a choice at the time. Too late, John had come to realize that in all likelihood, Dean was in for a world of heartbreak when the day came that he couldn't save his little brother.

Refocusing on Dean's telling of the events, he then questioned Sam carefully. Sam answered every question methodically and logically, seemingly almost disconnected from his own emotions. He could have easily been telling a story of something that had happened to someone else, and John nodded in approval once again.

The monsters didn't care if you were scared, after all.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam listened as his father and brother tossed theories back in forth, his brother's knowledge of the lore making him almost a match for John's experience. Dean was a natural born hunter, his instincts like that of a jungle cat, and Sam seldom doubted them.

This morning, however, the only instincts Dean was listening to were his big brother instincts, which were screaming at him to take Sam and get the hell out of dodge.

Sam had no intention of leaving, however. This mornings events only acted to reassure him that the ghost was nowhere near finished.

A part of him wished he could stop and take a moment to enjoy not being the one at odds with everyone else in the room, but the memories of his vision that morning on the dock kept distracting him.

It had all seemed so clear while it was happening, but now, back in their hotel room, with his head full of Dean and John and _should-could-woulds,_ he just couldn't focus. He couldn't quite recall what he'd seen happening. He knew it was important, though. Sam was sure, in fact, that it was the key to everything.

If only he could remember it clearly. Maybe if he tried to draw it out...

The thought came to him so suddenly that Sam felt stupid and slow for not thinking of it sooner, and he actually snorted a little at his own ineptitude.

Realizing the other occupants in the room were now staring at him, he hunched his shoulders down and ducked his head, suddenly reluctant to speak.

"Something funny about all this, Sammy?" Dean's voice was laced with anger which Sam correctly interpreted as concern and fear. Sam couldn't meet his brother's eyes, couldn't risk opening his mouth and having all the wrong words spill out.

So instead he addressed his words to their father. John was watching him intently, a careful, measuring look in his eyes. Well used to John's scrutiny by now, Sam met his eyes easily, betraying none of his thoughts.

"I need to talk to Lucas again."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/n: Okay, so, no journal entry for this chapter, sorry. I have given up trying to guestimate the number of chapters for this fic. Apparently I love the little details too much for events to happen quickly. I still have the entire outline, though, so no worries. This story is completely plotted out. Hopefully a longer fic than planned won't bother any of you guys.**

**Thanks so much to all my reviewers, you are amazing and wonderful and kind and deserve amazing, wonderful things.**

**And if you haven't checked out my other AU WIP, "All The Pretty Monsters", please check it out via my profile. I update it also very regularly, though, fair warning, it is a dark fic (perhaps the darkest I've ever wrote.)**

**If you can spare a moment, please review and let me know your thoughts. **

**As always, **

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**Chaper Six- "The Boy Who Drew To Much"**

Sam studied the boy in front of him. Lucas continued to steadfastly ignore him however, completely engrossed in his drawing. Crayons and sheets of paper were strewn about the room, and Lucas seemed almost manic as he created picture after picture of the lake.

Most of the pictures appeared to have bodies in them. Wasn't that a charming thought?

Sam could feel the watchful, worried eyes of both Andrea and Dean on the two of them from where they stood in Lucas's doorway. Verbal pleas hadn't gotten a reaction out of the child and Sam wasn't sure how much longer Andrea would allow them to remain. That she had let them in at all was a minor miracle itself, as far as Sam was concerned, and testament to Dean's utter ability to charm blood out of the proverbial stone.

Racking his mind for an alternative way to communicate with Lucas, Sam settled for picking up his own blank sheet of paper and crayon. Speaking lowly, so that Andrea couldn't hear his words, he started talking to Lucas, his words almost stumbling over themselves in his haste.

"I saw something this morning, Lucas. In the water. I saw a...a _picture_ of something important, but my brother stopped me from seeing the rest. Is that what you've been seeing? Is that what you've been drawing? Can you help me, Lucas? Can you tell me who this is?" Sam handed his own crude drawing of the boy with the red bike over to Lucas.

Lucas studied the drawing solemnly for a moment, and Sam held his breath, afraid to ruin the moment.

Biting his lip, Lucas laid down Sam's drawing. Picking up a crayon of his own, he slowly started filling in the background, which Sam had intentionally left blank.

Slowly, new details emerged, first a tree, then a yellow two story house with a fence running along side of it. Sam felt a surge of excitement when Lucas added the white clapboard church beside beside the yellow house.

Sam recognized that church. He had jogged by one just like it that morning.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean watched as his brother somehow managed to interact with the nearly catatonic child. Dread curled in his stomach, and he had to repeatedly force himself to unclench his fists.

Dean had never walked away from a hunt before. Had never even _considered_ walking away from a hunt while the baddie was still breathing air (or whatever that particular brand of baddie breathed).

But then, Dean's little brother had never suddenly mutated into monster bait mid-hunt either.

Dean couldn't understand why the ghost had seemed to latch on to Sammy the way it had, unless it was just a case of right place, wrong time. The ghost was obviously fixated on Lucas also. Perhaps Sam had just been unlucky enough to attract the ghosts attention during it's attack on Lucas at the playground yesterday.

Sam was only a few years older than the ghost they appeared to be hunting, so perhaps that played a part also.

But then what was the connection between the other victims? The ghost was obviously after the Daniels family, but why?

He looked up at Sam as he walked up to Dean with a triumphant grin. Dean didn't fail to notice that the smile never made it to Sam's eyes.

"I got it." Sam said, presenting the drawing to Dean as they went to meet their father outside. "I know where we have to go next."

Dean looked at his brother, careful to ensure his face did not betray his turbulent thoughts. Sam was still too pale, and had spent half the car ride over coughing. Stubbornly, he had refused any of Dean's offer's of assistance, and Dean was becoming nostalgic for his old, clingy little brother.

New Sam seemed almost...driven.

Dean didn't like it. Something about all this felt horribly wrong.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam studied the house in front of them. It was a match in every way for Lucas's sketch, but more than that, it simply felt _right_.

Pushing down his unease at the thought that he now had instincts that could pick up on something like that, he got out of the car and stood staring up at the house.

"Sam?" His father questioned gruffly, and Sam nodded a short, terse affirmative.

Following his father and brother to the front door, he obediently stood behind Dean as his father knocked. A small, timid looking woman in her late sixties opened yes door.

"Can I help you?" She asked in a quivering voice, eyes widening in mild alarm at the sight of the three men.

John smiled, and Sam reluctantly acknowledged that his father could definitely turn on the charm when he had a mind to. It was obvious where Dean had learned that particular skill.

"Ma'am, My name's John Talbot, I'm with the Wisconsin Weekly Sentinel, and these two young men are interning with me. I'm doing an article about the drownings and disappearances here in Lake Manitoc. May we come in?" He smiled his charm smile once more for good measure, but it wasn't necessary, as the woman was already opening the door wide.

"Dear Lord," She whispered, half to herself, the three men straining forward to catch her wavering words.

"You must be here about Peter," She said, tears welling up in her eyes. "After all these years." She swallowed, then gestured them in. "You'd better come in and sit down."

Sam's head snapped up at her words, violent chills working themselves up and down his spine.

_Peter._

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John kept the charade up smoothly, asking the right questions, pausing in all the right places, making all the right, sympathetic noises.

Sam had obviously been correct. Peter Billings was almost certainly the ghost responsible for the recent spate of drownings. But a missing body was difficult to salt and burn. And the host's fixation with the lake indicated that drowning was the most likely cause of death. Stopping the ghost out right would be nearly impossible. Eventually, the draining of the lake by the feds would render the ghost impotent, but who knew how many other people might drown in the meantime?

Their next best bet would be to identify and try to relocate potential victims while they worked on the problem of dispelling Peter's ghost. They had yet to establish the pattern between the victims though.

Just then, John noticed Sam stiffen, spine as straight as a board as he reached out to pick up a photo from the mantle where he had been studying Mrs. Billing's knick knacks. Dean noticed also, smoothly engaging Mrs. Billings in conversation, distracting her as Sam subtly pocketed the photo.

John smiled to himself in satisfaction. A few weeks ago, Sam would have balked at what he would have considered a form of theft.

But now he didn't hesitate, seeing a source of vital information and taking the steps needed to acquire it.

Yes, Sam was coming along nicely.

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They thanked Mrs. Billings for her time and left quickly, gathering round the Impala. Sam had already removed the picture from its frame. Dean spared a moment of unease for how easily Sam had stolen what had probably been a treasured picture of Mrs. Billings dead child. Forcing it down, he leaned down to read the writing on the back of the photo. The writing was faded but still legible, in a curling, feminine script that probably belonged to Peter's mother.

_Peter Billings and Joseph Daniels, age twelve._

"Joseph Daniels." Sam said, making eye contact with his father. "Sophie and Will's dad."

John frowned in thought. "Its unlikely to be a coincidence." He said finally. We'd better head over to the Daniels place and see what he has to say.

They split up, the boys in the Impala and John in his truck. They pulled up a little less than ten minutes later.

The house appeared empty, eerie and silent, windows darkened, a lone wind chime sounding discordantly in the breeze.

John gave the boys a look and Dean nodded, pulling his gun from where he had put it at the small of his back. Sam knelt smoothly to pull his knife from his ankle sheath, but was stopped by John nonchalantly handing him his second piece.

Dean pulled up short in surprise. John had been adamant that Sam not carry during the day unless the hunt took them into the woods or into so other, isolated area. He had always said it wasn't worth the risk of Sam getting caught carrying, no matter how proficient a shot Sam had become. Sam's face revealed neither surprise or anything other emotion, however, so Dean filed it away, one more item to deal with later.

Their father motioned for them to cover the rear entrance and the brothers moved stealthily around the house. Dean noticed with some surprise that despite his recent growth spurt Sam moved easily and silently, seeming to have finally come to terms with his own body. They moved quietly up the stairs, pausing when Dean held up his handling, directing Sam that they would wait for John's signal.

A second later, though, Dean realized that Sam was no longer at his back. Pivoting smoothly, he could see his brother running towards the dock at the water's edge.

"Sam!", Dean hissed, lunging after his brother.

The look Sam tossed over his shoulder had Dean on red alert, however. Straightening, he scanned the area, trying to see or hear whatever it was that had caught Sam's attention. He could hear John behind them also, now, the banging of the screen door certifying without words that the house was indeed empty.

Sam slowed as he came to the dock, and Dean caught up to him only a few yards out.

"What the fuck, Sam!" He cursed, voice echoing back at them over the water and Dean winced at the volume of his own words.

"Ssshhhh!" Instantly Sam reacted, holding his own hand up to his brother to signal for quiet, turning in a circle where he stood.

Facing out to the lake once more he closed his eyes. Almost immediately though, he opened them again. Sam's eyes shot to Dean's.

"Do you hear a boat?" Sam asked, voice low and intense as he scanned the tree line once more.

Now that he knew what he was listening for, Dean could, in fact, hear the sound of an outboard motor.

From around a bend in the shoreline, a small boat appeared, a lone man at the helm. Dean recognized Mr. Daniels.

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"Come back!" Sam shouted desperately, cupping his hands around his mouth to better pitch his voice across the water. Sam was certain he had been heard, but Mr. Daniels gave no indication that he was returning, instead _increasing_ the speed of the small boat.

Sam watched defeatedly as the boat shot out further across the lake. Sam tensed, feeling a sense of... _unease_...wash through him.

Eyes widening with sudden understanding, he turned back to Dean and their father, unceremoniously shoving them off the dock, toward the cover of the tree line.

Sam's back was turned at the actual moment Peter attacked the boat. He had to rely on Dean's description after ward.

It didn't matter, though, because Sam had achieved his goal. When the boat flew up into the air, as if it had struck a wall in the middle of the lake, raining down shrapnel and debris, the Winchester's were several feet away from the dock and the smoking wreckage that struck it almost immediately.

Peter was one seriously pissed off ghost.

Dean made to go into the water then, thinking to try to rescue Daniels, but John stopped him, his arm an unrelenting wall across Dean's chest.

"It's too late, anyway." Sam said disjointedly, listed suddenly to one side. He felt strong hands wrap around him as his knees buckled and everything started to fade to Gray.

He probably should have grabbed something to eat this morning.

Oh well.

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Dean listened with only half an ear as his father argued with the suspicious Sheriff.

Most of his attention was settled on his too pale, too quiet, too still pain in the ass little brother. Sam had shrugged off passing out, attributing it to too much cold medicine and not enough breakfast.

Dean was less than reassured, but hopefully it wouldn't matter much longer. The ghost of Peter Billings had successfully managed to kill the last living member of the Daniels family. The Sheriff had reluctantly acknowledged that his son-in-law had, in fact, been Joseph Daniels godson.

The entire case was wrapping up neatly, if slightly less than satisfactorily. It burned that they hadn't been able to save the Daniels family, but it was obvious now that Joseph Daniels had, in fact, been the intended target all along.

Dean was willing to chalk this one up in the win-some, lose-some column, and get his ghost-whispering little brother the hell out of dodge.

John had just reluctantly agreed to the Sheriff's "suggestion" that they make tracks out of town when the door opened, revealing Andrea and Lucas.

Dean noticed two interesting things in the next moment. Firstly, the Sheriff was seriously unhappy to see his daughter and grandson.

The second was that apparently Lucas had taken a shine to Sammy during their few interactions, because the child threw himself into Sam's arms and promptly burst into tears.

Sam gave Dean a bewildered, uncomfortable look, and Dean shrugged helplessly. Perhaps the child had sensed the ghost's aggression from as far away as the Daniels place and now was frightened?

Andrea hurried over, looking alarmed, vainly trying to wrestle Lucas from Sam's arms. The boy had wrapped himself around Dean's brother like an octopus, however, and neither one of them could seem to manage to untangle him.

The sheriff finally solved their dilemma by brusquely yanking Lucas out of Sam's lap, nearly spilling Sam out of his chair in the process, and Dean shot him a heated look, lips pressed thin with anger.

Sam righted himself, and Dean stood, stepping in between the Sheriff and his obviously still unsteady little brother. John stood as well, displeased with the both the Sheriff's attitude and threats.

"Andrea, take Lucas and go home, now!" The Sheriff ordered. Andrea bit her lip, but complied, a now whimpering Lucas clutched in her arms.

Lucas stared solemnly at Sam over her shoulder, and Dean unconsciously angled his body to block Sam and Lucas's line of sight. He had had enough of creepy children, dead or alive, who were fixated on his brother.

The sheriff turned back to the Winchester's.

I know you lied about being from the Sentinel. If I hadn't had a witness watch Joe Daniels go into the water, the three of you would be cooling your heels in one of my cells right now. As it is, if you're not out of my town in the next fifteen minutes, you still might be." His eyes were hard, voice unrelenting.

Dean glanced at John, unsure how his father would react to the Sheriff's tone, but John simply nodded tersely, a calculating look in his eyes as he studied his opponent.

"Let's move, boys." He ordered, turning away the Sheriff dismissively, and Dean couldn't help but grin at the annoyance that crossed the Sheriff's features.

Sam followed them silently, pale and still not quite steady on his feet. Dean stopped at a vending machine by the door to the Sheriff's station, feeding it quarters until it relinquished a coke in return. Popping the top on the can, he shoved it into Sammy's hands.

"Drink. Now." Dean ordered, staring into Sam's too-wide hazel eyes until Sam finally focused on him, nodding slowly without a word.

He obediently started sipping the soda, and Dean found himself once again wishing for a little of Sam's old spark. At this point, even a famous Sam Winchester bitch face would be a welcome improvement.

Hoping that it was simply Sam coming down with a cold, he hustled Sam into the car, before walking over to his father's truck. John was waiting impassively, and Dean felt a momentary flair of annoyance that John didn't even inquire about Sam before launching into instructions.

"Bobby found another hunt for us. It's all the way in California, though, so we need to make good time tonight. You good to drive straight through?" He asked in a tone of voice that clearly stated it wasn't actually a question.

"Yes, Sir." Dean gave the expected response, pushing away his dashed hopes that he might get his sick brother into a bed any time soon.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time a sick Sam had slept in the Impala. Dean would hit the drugstore on the way out of town, and dope him up with enough cold medicine to make even Sam's Sasquatch frame fall asleep.

He headed back to his baby, sliding behind the wheel. He spared a look a Sam, who looked troubled.

"Nothing more we can do, Sammy." He said firmly. "Drink your damn soda, then try to get some sleep. It's gonna be a long drive."

They headed over to the hotel, Dean grabbing his and Sam's duffels. John left first, satisfied that the boys wouldn't be too far behind.

"We don't need to stop at the store, Dean. I'm good to go. We can always stop later if I need medicine." Sam said mildly, mind still obviously elsewhere.

Dean snorted. "Or, we can stop now and you can get some actual sleep, and maybe be worth a damn once we reach California."

Sam froze for a split second, before turning to look out the wind shield.

"Whatever you say, Dean." He said quietly, and Dean cursed himself in his head.

He couldn't say the right thing to save his life today, it seemed.

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Sam watched the scenery fly by, the green of the trees growing darker as the the sun sank lower, the Impala's shadow stretching out before her on the road.

With every mile, though, Sam felt his muscles tense a little more. His stomach churned. He had to keep reminding himself to take deep breathes, to relax his shoulders. He felt like a piano wire pulled far too tight, ready to snap.

He felt exactly the way he had before Joe Daniels had been killed, disoriented and uneasy.

Realizing he was about to be sick, he managed a weak, "Dean," that, combined with a flailing hand gesture apparently got his point across, as Dean had immediately wrenched to car to the side of the highway.

Sam stumbled out, and promptly lost what little of the soda he had managed to drink, along with the cold medicine Dean had pressed on him less than a hour ago.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean was asking, his voice sounding far away and Sam struggled to focus over the dizzying feeling of unreality, of _wrongness_ that was overwhelming him.

"Something's wrong." Sam finally gasped, still hunched over, arms wrapped protectively over his tender stomach.

"What? Where? What hurts the most?" Dean was asking the questions rapid-fire, but Sam just shook his head, unsure of how to get his point across.

"We...have to go back." Sam said, swaying a little as he forced himself to straighten, pushing down any lingering nausea.

Monsters didn't care if you were sick.

"The hell we do!" Dean exclaimed, hand cupped protectively under Sam's elbow as he led Sam back to the Impala. "What we have to do is get a motel room for the night. Dad'll have to go ahead, you can't travel like this."

Sam was shaking his head, backing away from the car. "No. Something's wrong. Something's wrong with Lucas and Andrea..." He scrunched his head, trying to think past the pounding pain.

Sam tried vainly to focus on what his body was trying to tell him. "Something bad's gonna happen, Dean. I just know it."

Dean was shaking his head. "We can't just go back, Sam. The sheriff practically road us out on a rail, man."

Sam massaged his temples, physically willing the pain in his head to ease. They didn't have time for this.

"We have to Dean. Something bad's going down." He turned pleading eyes to his brother, unsure how to ask for what he knew he needed.

"Dad gave us orders, Sam." Dean said with finality.

"Okay." Sam swallowed, nodding his head.

"Okay." he repeated again, mostly to himself.

"You go ahead, I'll catch up. I'll hitch back and meet you guys in California." He started walking backwards, eyes on his brother, certain of only one thing.

He had to go back. He felt like a compass needle, swinging towards north no matter what way he was turned.

"Are you delirious?" Dean exploded, reaching out to snag his brother's arm. "You're not going back, Sam!"

Sam stopped so abruptly, that for a moment Dean nearly lost his own footing. Sam straightened to his full height, then, and Dean was forced to look up grudgingly.

"I'm going back." Sam said flatly, no emotion in his voice, no emotion in his face save utter and absolute determination.

Dean stared at Sam for a long moment.

"Shit." Dean said then, turning away and whipping out his cell.

Sam watched as Dean quickly punched a few buttons, shoulders tensing when he realized Dean was calling John.

"It's me." He announced, getting straight to the point. "Sam says something's going down back at Lake Manitoc. He doesn't think the ghost is done. We're heading back."

Sam could hear their father say some choice words, watched as Dean pulled the phone away from his ear slightly. "Yes sir...no sir...we'll meet you there, sir...".

Sam looked at Dean solemnly when Dean hung up.

"If you're wrong, I'll kick your ass myself." Dean said without fanfare, already moving back to the impala, and Sam hurried after him.

He hoped they would make it in time.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/n: Yay! Just about finished with Dead in the Water. Just FYI, the plan is to work through a couple more episodes in this fashion, allowing me to play out some different scenarios created by this particular story arc. Sorry it's not as straight forward as I originally thought it would be.**

**Originally, I thought it would be very emotional, set mostly in the characters minds, but the characters are so action based that this felt like the best way to show Sam 2.0. Plus, it really allows me to push Dean, which he probably needs, as loyal as he is to John. John is actually pretty kick ass in this chapter, which may come across as disparate, but I never thought John was evil, just wrong. If he was simply interested in letting Sam die, he would have let it happen long ago. So please don't think my John is out of character for this story, I just want to show how Dean's opinions evolve, and that's a process that takes time. And for those of you that think Sam's a little OOC for what has been happening, I look at his emerging psychic powers almost as a symptom of his emotional trauma, much as Sam describes Lucas's abilities in the actual episode Dead in the Water. So Sam in the past few chapters has been slightly more emotional than he will be later on, because his flaring psychic powers are a new thing for him. Don't worry, he isn't just going to fall into Dean's and John's arms. He's evolving too, and his evolution will be what fuels Dean's, so please bear with me.**

**Feedback helps me to know I am making sense, and I try very hard to answer signed reviews personally, especially if there is a question or confusion. I love sharing my thoughts on my stories, so please share yours too, because I genuinely want to hear from you.**

**As Always, **

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: Still not my sandbox**

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**Chapter Seven- "The Dreaming in the Deep"**

When they finally pulled up in front of Andrea and Lucas's home, it was nearly midnight. Sam shot from the car, sprinting up the walk to the front door.

Dean spared a moment to wonder just where exactly all of Sam's sudden energy was coming from, before he, too was in motion, trailing his brother like tail on a comet.

Sam had tried the knob once, but it was locked, and now he was banging on the door like a madman.

Dean flinched at the racket, glad the Sheriff had no close neighbors. He leaned to the side to glance in the darkened front window when he heard the distinct sound of the lock on the door being unlatched, the sound harsh in the sudden silence.

Well, that was never good.

Sam had frozen, arm raised to continue banging against the wood and he tossed Dean a startled, apprehensive look.

"Sammy-" Dean started, reaching out to slow down his nearly manic brother, but Sam was already in motion again, and _damn _but that kid could be fast when he wanted to.

Sam had pushed through the front room without another second's thought, positively _flying_ up the stairs, past an obviously terrified, sobbing Lucas.

Sam ran like he was zeroing in on a beacon only he could hear, and Dean had a terrible, breath-stealing moment where he was suddenly certain that returning had been a horrible, massive mistake.

The house was freezing. Dean could see his breath, and he could smell that same smell of old, rotted things and dank water that he had smelled this morning on the dock when the ghost had attacked his brother.

Sam had been right, obviously. Peter was nowhere near finished.

Dean reached the top of the stairs just in time to see Sam race into what appeared to be an old fashioned bathroom, complete with a claw foot tub, overflowing with dark, murky water. He could see flailing limbs, barely managing to push above the edge of the tub, and water splashed wildly.

He'd nearly reached the door the bathroom when it slammed shut with enough force to knock down photos up and down the hallway.

Dean was going to fast to stop, he ran into it headfirst, so hard he actually bounced off it, nearly losing his balance. Throwing himself against the wood again, he yelled the only words he could think of in that moment.

"Sam! Sammy! SAM!"

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Sam _felt _the draft created by the slamming door, could hear his brother screaming his name, but he felt like nail pulled to a magnet, drawn to the water and the drowning woman submerged beneath.

Dean's yelling sounded dim and much further away then it should, door or not, he was only a few feet away, yet Sam couldn't bring himself to focus on anything but Andrea.

Water was puddled everywhere, and the wet, rotting smell of it had Sam gagging as he plunged his arms unthinkingly into the tub, up to his shoulders, wrapping his arms around the struggling woman. Andrea was fighting, fighting hard, but she'd obviously been under for quite a while already and Sam could sense her weakening, could almost feel her fading away.

"_Like Hell" _The words were his own, spoken in his own mind, and if you'd asked Sam later, he wouldn't have even remembered that the voice he heard in that moment sounded an awful lot like his older brother.

Sam pulled with all his strength, but no matter how hard he strained, the ghost was stronger. Andrea was barely moving, now, and panic was flooding Sam's body.

Desperate and frightened and suddenly angrier than he'd ever been in his whole life, Sam braced his legs one more time and pulled so hard he imagined he could hear his spine snapping, his muscles tearing.

But more than that, it felt like he had somehow pulled not just with his body, _but with his mind_.

It should have frightened him. It should have terrified him. Normal people didn't hear ghosts when no one else could. They couldn't see images in the water like the witches of old with their scrying bowls. And the certainly didn't out strong-arm ghosts with their minds.

But Sam didn't have time to think about all that. Andrea's head broke above the water, crying and gasping and screaming all at once. Sam felt a fleeting, brief moment of satisfaction, a fierce triumph as he pulled Andrea from the water, pushing her towards the corner of the bathroom. She was frantic, moving jerkily like a frightened animal. Sam was about to hand her a towel when it happened.

Dean had just hit the door from the other side exceptionally hard, and the noise echoed in the tiny room. Perhaps that''s what startled Sam. Or perhaps he was fatigued, he was sick, after all, and he had just used more energy than he had any rightful claim to at that moment.

Perhaps he simply slipped in an unfortunate puddle of water. Andrea's struggle had thoroughly doused the floor.

Perhaps nothing mattered, except for the fact that Sam did, in fact slip. Arms pinwheeling backwards as he sought to regain his balance, Andrea would think back later and wonder if the expression on his face had really been as unsurprised, as resigned as she remembered.

Sam fell straight back into the still full tub, the crack of his head hitting the porcelain nearly as loud as the banging of Dean from the other side of the door.

As Andrea watched in horror, swirls of red drifted up across the water.

Sam's legs didn't move.

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Dean's arm beat in desperate futility against the door separating him from his brother. At first there had been sounds of a struggle, frantic splashing, the sounds of Sammy grunting as if he were lifting something heavy. Then a loud thud following by a devastating silence.

Sam wasn't answering.

"Sammy! Sam! Dammit, SAMMY" Dean was still screaming, not caring that his voice was going raw, not even noticing.

He had tried forcing the door with his shoulders, tried kicking it in. A part of his mind was shouting at him that he needed tools, needed a crowbar, or an ax or a fucking flamethrower, he didn't care what, but his mind was so full of _Sam-Water-Sam-Silence-Ghost-SAMMY_ that the half-formed ideas never took flight, never reached his legs.

"MOVE!"

Had the words been shouted in any other voice but that of John Winchester's _Tone Of Authority_, Dean probably wouldn't have heard them, much less understood them. Twenty years of obedience held him in good stead, that night, because he threw himself to the side just as John took the fireman's ax he kept in his truck to the bathroom door.

The door practically disintegrated under John's onslaught, and Dean nearly got himself beheaded throwing himself at the wreckage, forcing himself through the too-small hole into the bathroom.

Andrea was curled into the corner, eyes wide with shock, shaking with cold, apparently not even realizing she was naked. Her eyes were locked on the tub, and Dean nearly screamed in rage and fear when he saw Sam's motionless leg's hanging over the edge, like a puppet who's strings had been cut.

He screamed again, a war cry when he saw blood in the water, and plunged his arms in, daring, almost hoping the damn ghost would make a pass at him if it meant it let Sam out.

He could feel Sam, his motionless body laying heavily on the smooth porcelain bottom of the tub, but he couldn't see him, the water dark with blood and silt and god knew what else.

Dean didn't care. The only thing in that tub that interested Dean was Sammy.

It was like Sam had his own gravitational pull, though, his brother suddenly weighing a thousand, a hundred thousand pounds, and if John hadn't joined Dean in that moment, there was absolutely no doubt in Dean's mind that they never would have gotten Sam out.

Somehow, though, the two of them combined did manage to lever him out, boneless and white, a bloody gash near his hairline towards the back of his head.

Nearly frozen with terror, Dean lunged forward, placing his ear against Sam's mouth to see if he would take a breath.

A moment passed, and Dean reacted, fear making him irrational as he shook his brother.

Sam flopped like a rag doll. He could feel John trying to pull Sam from Dean's arm. Intellectually, Dean knew they had to lay Sam down, start CPR, start breathing for Sammy, but the boy inside him who'd spent sixteen year's looking after the kid lying motionless in his arms was having trouble with the concept.

John was about to take more drastic action, when Suddenly Sam gasped, coughing and Dean instinctively turned him over, watching dark water pour from Sammy's mouth.

Wearily, Sam turned back to look in his brother's eyes.

"I saw it, Dean. I saw Peter. I saw everything." His eyes fluttered shut then, and Dean found he actually remembered quite few more of the prayers Pastor Jim had taught them than he would have ever thought.

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Sam looked up in the deep blue sky, late afternoon sun falling across his face. He could hear birds in the distance, and could smell that peculiar scent trademark to the north in early autumn. Like fallen leaves and pine trees and snow and sunshine, all at once.

Where was he?

He was walking along a gravel road, and with a start, he realized he was...shorter? He held up his hands in bemusement, marveling at how small they were, and that was when he realized he must be dreaming.

Dreaming of being a kid again. Ten maybe? Twelve?

He continued walking down the road. Ahead, in the distance he could see what looked like sunlight being reflected off water. He sped up, bewildered by this strange dream where nothing at all seemed to be happening.

The lake finally came into full view, and Sam stopped suddenly, chilled as the sun went behind a cloud.

There was a dock up ahead. Three bikes were at the end, in a hap-hazard pile, as if they owners had given little thought to them as they were abandoned for other sport. He could see three figures on the end of the dock now, and Sam felt his breath unconsciously speed up.

This was bad. This was wrong. This...this wasn't a...was this a dream?

It felt more like a memory, a bad memory, but Sam couldn't remember anything like this. Why was he so tense all of a sudden.

He raced towards the dock, tripping over one of the bikes and scraping his hands in the process. Glancing down, he took in the cherry red paint-

And suddenly Sam remembered everything.

"Peter." He breathed, feeling disoriented, like he was in one of the nightmares where the harder you tried to run, the slower you moved. The air suddenly thick like quicksand, he fought his way to the end of the dock.

He was too late.

He could see the panic, the fear on the two bigger boy's faces as they realized what had happened.

What they had done.

Sam could see them argue, could see them flail their hands desperately, but he couldn't hear them, couldn't get closer, there was a buzzing in his ears, like someone was shouting in the distance, and _why_ _was he so breathless_,_** Sam couldn't get a deep breath.**_

One of the boys made to shove the body of the end of the dock and Sam strained forward again, gasping, reaching.

"No!" He choked out, dizzy with the need to breath and wasn't that stupid, there was air all around him, _just breathe!_

"Don't" He cried, falling to his knees, except maybe he was falling further, falling faster, because the whole world was spinning, and god, his head hurt, and he closed his eyes against the shooting pain.

He opened them to see Dean's strained face above him, eyes gone dark and stormy with fear. He opened his mouth to tell Dean what he had learned, what he had seen, but choked instead, gagging as foul water forced his way out of his mouth in place of his words.

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Dean paced back in forth in the Sheriff's living room. He wanted to break something,to take a baseball bat to the windows, to pull his gun and start firing at the walls.

Sam hadn't been breathing.

The fact circled round and round his head and he paced round and round the living room.

Sam hadn't been breathing, had been _dead_, had in fact, not just been _dead_ but apparently _dead_ in some homicidal ghost's _memory of dying_ and yet his family was sitting in Andrea's living room, drinking coffee and giving the traumatized woman the cliff notes version of the supernatural world.

Or, at least John was. Sam looked completely done, skin ghost white except to the angry red wound where John had been forced to stitch him up because Dean's hands hand been shaking too much. Dark circles decorated his eyes and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. The coughing would normally have driven Dean insane by now, but every cough, every breath meant at least Sam WAS breathing, was alive.

Dean wanted him to stay that way.

Dean had been all for leaving four hours ago, just packing up Sam and Lucas and Andrea and driving them away, far away, like, Tennessee far away. Or maybe to Bobby in South Dakota. That might have been far enough away. Then John and Dean could have come back and taken some freaking C4 to that stupid dam and pulled the freaking rug out from under that good damn brother targeting brat.

And yet, somehow, when Dean voiced his (excruciatingly good, in his opinion) plan, the others had all looked at him as if he were crazy.

As he listened to them talk, he found himself idly wondering if he could fit Sam into the trunk of the Impala and just deal with the fall out himself later.

"None of this makes any sense." Andrea was insisting, for the fifth time. "Obviously, I am having a nervous breakdown. I'm nuts."

"You're nuts, alright!" Dean muttered to himself, ignoring the baleful look John was giving him.

Instead he strode over to where Sam had suddenly stood, watching as his little brother slowly steadied himself, letting out a deep breath that ended in a cough.

"Sam?" Dean said warningly, in no mood for Sam to wander off anywhere without an armed guard at this point.

Sam raised his hand, shaking his head a little. "No...I'm good. I just need to walk a little. I'm feeling a little off right now."

Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I wonder why?" He drawled sarcastically.

Sam shot him a glance before rolling his shoulders, coughing once more for good measure. Dean reached out on instinct, meaning to check for fever, but Sam shrugged out of dodge.

"Working, Dean." He chided, with a glance at Andrea, who had Lucas at her feet, drawing once again.

Dean wanted to torch that kid's crayons.

"Not if I hogtie you?" Dean offered, much more serious than he sounded.

Sam shot him another look, and went to look at the photos on the bookshelves. Dean knew the moment he found something, he stiffened up, just as he had at Mrs. Billings house yesterday (and god, was it only yesterday?).

"Andrea?" Sam said, picking up a photo and turning to the woman, a odd sound to his voice.

"Who is this kid?" He said, and Dean noticed his hand was shaking just slightly. Perhaps sensing Dean's scrutiny, Sam glanced at his brother again before his hand steadied, and Dean wondered just how much that little trick had cost Sam.

She shook her head, looking confused."Um, that's Dad. My Dad, I mean. I guess, He's only twelve there, maybe? Thirteen? Why?" She said, looking more alarmed by the minute.

The three Winchesters shared a look, and Sam scrubbed a weary hand down his face.

"This is who I saw, in my...vision." Sam's voice stumbled with reluctance over the word, and Dean noticed a strange...hardness...pass over their Dad's features for a moment.

"He was there. He helped...kill Peter." Sam said, somehow managing to look Andrea in the face, and Dean admired his little brother so much in that moment.

If what Sam said was true, than Andrea's father was the reason Sam had nearly just died saving her life, yet he looked at her with so much compassion it hurt Dean to see.

Andrea was shaking her head, tears running down her face, about to open her mouth, to argue, to refute Sam's words, but Lucas stood suddenly then, and every eye in the room flew to him.

"Lucas? Baby?" Andrea asked, move towards him with a careful arm outstretched. Lucas ignored her however, moving towards the window over looking the backyard, where the sun was just starting to lighten the sky behind the tree line.

Lucas glanced behind him, eyes unerringly zoning in on Sam. Sam shook his head tiredly.

"You're gonna have to help me out with this one, kid." Sam said, exhaustion tainting every word and Dean again felt the urge to put him in the car a drive away, anywhere, as long as they could leave _right_ _now_.

Lucas paused a moment, as if listening to something only he could hear, and Dean supposed that was true.

Then he calmly walked out the back door, the four of them trailing him like lost ducks. Dean kept to the rear, keeping Sam in his sights the whole time.

Lucas walked to the far edge of the property, hovering for a few moments before walking over to a large pine tree, needles carpeting the ground for several feet in every direction.

He tilted his head at Sam one more time, inquisitively, and Sam laughed a tired, punch drunk laugh.

"Okay." He held up his hands in surrender, walking over to Lucas. Something on his face changed as he walked under the boughs on the enormous pine, however, a stark, wide-eyed look creeping across his features.

He closed his eyes, nodding. "Yeah. Okay." He sighed heavily. "Here." Sam repeated, looking at John and Dean. "He's right. We need to dig here."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N – Holy crap, this chapter wraps up Dead in the Water! As I said last chapter, this story will work through a few more cases, to better show off the characters. Lots and lots of hurt Sam right now. Don't worry, it will ease up a little so as to be as realistic as a SPN fic can be, but what can I say, Sam's just kinda unlucky. Please please review!**

**Also, for any of you following my other AU, All The Pretty Monsters, please check out my profile. I've put a poll up that will let you vote for what characters you would like to see in the story. It's going to be a long one, with room for lots of characters, so I though I'd see which ones excited everyone the most!**

**As** **Always,**

**_EverReader_**

Prisoner Of War – Chapter 8

"Fractures of Light"

Sam sat tiredly against the pine tree, his brain a confused slurry of thoughts and emotions and memories that weren't quite all his. Dean had insisted that Sam sit this excavation out, and exhausted, Sam had reluctantly acquiesced.

John and Dean were digging, furiously silent, lacking the banter that often accompanied a midnight salt and burn.

Sam wasn't sure just how unhappy John was with their disobedience. He hadn't said a word, but disapproval practically radiated off of him. He could tell that Dean was not unaware of it, the tension in Dean's shoulders reminded Sam of a dog waiting to get kicked, and he wished he had the energy to feel mad on Dean's behalf. Sam had been right, and Dean had been right to trust him, but all John saw was the disobedience.

All he saw was Sam needing to be rescued, once again.

Even though Peter was obviously not done wrecking havoc.

Sam wasn't sure, not one hundred percent, but he thought Lucas might have found Peter's bike. It wasn't likely, but it was possible that the bike was partially what Lucas's spirit was clinging to. At the very least, trying a salt and burn on it might weaken Peter.

Or possibly make him much, much angrier.

Sam glanced down at his hands, at the scrapes that hadn't been present earlier that day, the scrapes that looked just like the ones he'd gotten in his dream when he'd tripped over the red bike at the dock. They throbbed in time with Dean and John's shovels, an angry red against the pallor of Sam's skin.

Sam was trying very hard not to think about that, about ghost wounds, and ghost memories and...visions.

He pretended not to see the measuring looks his father kept throwing his way, whenever John knew Dean's attention was elsewhere.

Sam wasn't sure if he'd ever been so tired in his whole damn life. Every breath burned a little, and he felt like no matter how deep a breath he took in, the exhale was always somehow bigger, leaving him in a permanent state of oxygen deficit. His head ached, and not just where his stitches were. He'd been unconscious in the water, even before he'd nearly drowned, so he figured he could add a concussion to the list.

And he could dodge Dean's quick hands as many times as he liked, but that wouldn't change to fact that he was almost certainly running a fever. His muscles hurt, and even his bones seemed to ache.

At least that was a good explanation for his shaking.

He looked up, startled as Dean draped his leather jacket over him. Sam inhaled the familiar scents of leather and gun oil and _Dean_.

Dean's eyes were concerned and he worried his bottom lip unconsciously, a habit he'd had for as long as Sam could remember.

"You okay, Sammy?" He said softly, mindful of Andrea sitting pale and quiet beside him, a sleeping Lucas laying across her lap. She was running her hands absently through Lucas's hair, though he'd been asleep for quite a while now.

Sam wondered if their Mom had done that with him, or more likely, Dean, since Sam had been so young when she died.

Sam could see John over Dean's shoulder, see the look in his eyes, the silent judgment.

He shook his head to clear it, forcing himself to his feet, ignoring Dean's hands trying to force him back down.

"Sit down before you fall down, Sam!" Concern disguised as irritation flavored Dean's words, and Sam added them to the list of things he was currently ignoring.

Monster's didn't care how worried your big brother was, either.

"I can take my turn, Dean." Sam said doggedly, determined that this stupid ghost wasn't going to put him out of commission like some B-movie sidekick.

"Well, now that we have verified you are, in fact, hallucinating, why don't you sit your ass back down, before I make you!" Dean's voice was more than irritated now, it was pissed, and Sam really, really wished he could find it in himself to care.

_But he was so damned tired._

"Stop your bickering, both of you!" John scolded, as if they were two quarreling children who needed to be put in separate corners, and at least Sam's exhaustion helped dull his fury at being treated like a "difficult child" once again.

Sam pressed his lips together, as much to silence his retort as his sudden need to cough again.

"Sam..." Dean started again, a warning look in his eye.

Sam was trying to figure out the best way to get around the unmovable wall that was Dean Winchester when he heard the sudden, discordant sound of metal hitting metal.

As one, the eyes of both boys flew to their father.

John was looking down at his feet, where the weak dawn sunlight was reflected off the spokes of an old, dirty wheel.

"Betcha it's red." Sam said humorlessly.

Dean's laugh sounded slightly manic.

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Dean moved towards John, throwing a warning glare at Sam, which Sam naturally ignored. Picking up his shovel, he rejoined John, the two men making quick work of removing the remaining soil. Soon the entire bike could be seen, the aging red paint the color of old, dried blood.

Sam came to stand beside Dean, and Dean didn't need to feel his forehead to sense the heat the kid was throwing off. Unthinkingly, he reached into his pocket for the aspirin he'd stashed there earlier, knocking his closed fist into Sam's chest to get his attention. Sam took them from Dean without so much as a grimace, dry swallowing them obediently. Sam's eyes were fixated on the bike in front of them, and Dean felt his heart wrench at how pathetically small and tragic it looked, buried away, the last piece of a lost little boy.

"Let's light it up." Sam said impassively, and Dean was again reminded of Sam's new and improved hunter attitude. The kid who would have once argued that Peter deserved their sympathy, despite his recent actions, was long gone, vanished much like Peter's body into the depths of the lake.

Dean found it disquieting to be the brother standing over a hole in the ground, romanticizing their quarry.

Without another word, Sam bent down for the canister of rock salt, thoroughly coating the bike. Forcing his head back into the game, Dean lifted his own canister of lighter fluid, dousing the bike.

"Stand back." John ordered, and they obediently moved away as John flicked a kitchen match against the box he'd pulled from his own bag, tossing it into the pit, the movement precise and methodical.

"It's not gonna be enough." Sam stated tonelessly, and Dean geared himself up once again to argue flight for now, because he honestly sure how much more Sam could have in him. Andrea didn't look much better at this point, and even John was beginning to show signs of fatigue.

Of course, it could never be that simple.

"_Who the hell are you guys_?" The Sheriff's voice might have been shaking, but his gun was trained unerringly on John, and Dean doubted the man could miss at that range.

"Dad?" Andrea cried, alarmed, watching her father with wide eyes.

"We know what you did." Sam's voice echoed loudly in the preternatural hush of the clearing.

Dean could have stomped on his foot for that little trick, because immediately the Sheriff turned, weapon now trained on Sammy. Dean froze, hand halfway to his back, reaching for gun. John had better luck, however, drawing smoothly on the Sheriff.

Sam stood, not the slightest bit of fear apparent on his face. On the contrary, if anything, he looked mildly annoyed, and Dean was torn between pride and utter exasperation.

Lucas awoke then, perhaps sensing his mother's distress. Frightened by the tension surrounding him, he began to sniffle.

John cocked his gun.

Sam narrowed his eyes at the Sheriff. Raising his hands slowly, he tilted his head inquisitively at the man. "How often do you think the average law enforcement official actually fires his weapon?" He directed his question at Dean, and Dean played along, while silently promising himself that he and Sammy would have words later about Sam's hostage negotiating technique.

"Not as often as Dad, I reckon, kiddo." Dean replied.

Lucas began to cry harder then, and Sam looked at the Sheriff again. "Put it away, Sheriff, you can't shoot all of us."

The Sheriff seemed to deflate then, as if every bone in his body just melted into a pool of shame and despair.

"We were just kids..." He whispered brokenly. Turning stricken eyes to his daughter, he said, "Andrea, honey, we were just kids, just a couple of scared kids."

Tears were running down her face freely now, and she stared at her father as if she'd never seen him before. A sob broke loose before she could restrain herself, and the sound seemed to spur Lucas's panic even higher

"Andrea, Sam's gonna go with you and Lucas and you guys are gonna pack some bags. Sam's right, this won't be enough to stop the ghost, we need to get you two out of dodge till this is over." John commanded.

Andrea was shaking her head. "No. No, Dad, we have to talk about this. You lied...you killed someone, that's the reason Chris is dead, and that boy, that boy you killed came after me..." She sank to the ground, frame racked by sobs.

Lucas was positively manic now, and John snapped at Sam, "Sam, take him in the house. Dean, watch him!" He gestured with his gun to the Sheriff. Dean drew his piece, training it on the heartbroken, shell-shocked man.

He glanced worriedly over to where Sam had somehow managed to wrangle Lucas into his arms. Sam was moving slow, but he nodded to Dean, letting him know he'd manage. Dean turned back to the Sheriff, covering John as John slowly approached the upset woman, kneeling down and speaking to her slowly.

The Sheriff stared listlessly at the still smoldering ruins of the bike, the frame now twisted and warped by the heat.

Dean spared another worried look at the house, where Sam was just now disappearing in the door, Lucas looking frantically over his shoulders.

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Lucas seemed to weigh a hundred pounds in his arms, though Sam knew realistically that the child was actually on the small side for his age. His legs protested every step, but he hefted Lucas higher in his arms, and forced himself to the back door. Once inside, he set Lucas on the counter top, and leaned over beside him, resting his forehead on the counter, breathing as deep as he could manage. He felt like he had swallowed half the lake last night, and the breathless feeling was getting worse and worse by the minute.

Straightening, he leaned over the sink, staring out the window at the scene in the back yard. The Sheriff was still motionless, tears tracking down a face that suddenly seemed much older than the first time Sam had seen him. Dean's posture was soldier-perfect, focused and unwavering, though Sam could have swore he could feel Dean worrying about him even at this distance. John and Andrea appeared to be arguing, the poor woman obviously pushed beyond her limits and Sam could tell even from the house that John was about to lose his patience.

Suddenly, Lucas made a strangled, frightened sound, and Sam's eyes flew to his. Lucas, however,was staring in terror at the sink that Sam was leaning over, and Sam jerked back instinctively when he realized just what was happening. Before their eyes, the handle of the faucet was slowly turning, loosing first a trickle, and then a steady stream of brackish water.

Already the sink was filling, filling far too fast and Sam could only think that water must be overflowing from the drain at the bottom also.

Once again, the air was tainted with the smell of rotting and damp, and Sam lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Lucas and backing away from the counter. He stepped backwards another few steps, reluctant to take his eyes of the danger. He nearly lost his balance, however, and when he looked down, he saw a thin film of water spreading across the kitchen floor. Water was pooling from under the sink, and under the fridge as well. Backing out of the kitchen, he could see water coming from down the hall and down the stairs as well.

Peter was flooding the whole house.

Sam turned to go out the front door when he lost his balance for real, going down hard, twisting instinctively to avoid falling on Lucas. He knee screamed in pain, and Sam saw stars for a moment.

Breathless, and not sure how fast he could regain his mobility, he gasped out, "Lucas, go out the door. Get Dean, Lucas, run!"

The boy hesitated, staring at Sam, and Sam yelled again, "Now, Lucas, go now!"

The boy took off like a frightened deer, the front door banging behind him.

Sam pushed himself up slowly, warily watching for Peter. His knee protested, but Sam didn't think he'd done any real damage, just wrenched it good. The water was an easy two inches deep across the entire floor now, and Sam had the uneasy suspicion that it was seeping up from between the wooden slats themselves. The musty smell of dead fish and mud was overwhelming, and Sam was nearly choking on it.

"_Come play with me." _

The voice echoed from the water, or the walls, or maybe from Sam's on head, he couldn't really tell anymore, but Sam was twenty kinds of finished with this shit. Wondering where the hell Lucas was with Dean, he edged towards the front door.

Suddenly the window to his right slammed shut, so hard the glass shattered and Sam flinched. The window across the room did the same thing then, the sound of falling glass muffled by the rising water. Sam was astonished at the sheer strength of the ghost. Deciding to make a run for it, he braced himself as well as he could, stealing himself for the pain from his knee, and loped for the door.

He made it, barely, the door slamming hard, so close behind him it actually caught the hem of his jean's leg, and Sam found himself having to jerk free.

That was probably a good thing, however, because it meant he fell, hard, onto the slats of the porch. The sunlight was fracturing off the water of the lake in front of him, and it nearly obscured his vision for a moment, dancing lights flickering like drunken stars

When his eyes cleared, however, Sam's breath stalled in his chest.

Lucas hadn't run to Dean.

Lucas was on the dock, staring out into the water.

And a few yards out from Lucas, just barely cresting the waterline, Peter was staring back at Lucas.

"DEAN!" Sam realized it was him screaming at about the same time he realized he _could_ run after all, was, in fact running towards the lake.

He slowed as he neared to dock, feeling the temperature drop exponentially as he got closer to the water.

The cloying stench of the water was coating his throat, and he felt like a fireman attempting a rescue on the surface of an ice covered lake. Carefully, afraid to move suddenly and trigger the ghost's anger he edged out onto the dock, one slow, painful foot after another.

He extended his hand out, as far as he could, but Lucas was still several feet away. Sam was fairly certain Peter was just waiting for Lucas and Sam to both be drawn to the edge of the dock before attacking, and he spoke, urgently and low to the child.

"Lucas..." He stage whispered, crouching, trying to make himself into a smaller target while still bracing for attack. He edged out just a little further, than froze as the ghosts attention shifted to Sam.

Lucas seemed to rouse a little then, seeming to come back to himself, fear blooming across his features.

Sam could understand Lucas's confusion, with the full weight of Peter's gaze on him, the entire world had seemed to go slightly off kilter, time slowed and sped up at the same time, colors running, the gentle lapping of the water suddenly as loud as the ocean at high tide.

Sam shook his head, desperately trying to fight off the psychic attack, attempting to focus.

"_Lucas_!" He urged again, low and firm, and this time the boy looked at Sam.

"Back up slowly, okay Lucas? Slowly...that's it...you're almost there..." Quietly, he coaxed the frightened boy back until Sam's hand closed over his shoulder.

Drawing the boy back to him until they were flush, he whispered- "No sudden movements, no noises. I'm gonna take a step back, and you're gonna take a step with me, okay? Just one...step... at a time."

The boy nodded jerkily, Sam could feel it against his chest, though Sam was having trouble focusing, still fighting off the stare of the ghost, mind still full water and red bicycles and whispered words and darkness.

"SAM!" Dean's voice was pitched low, he was too accomplished a hunter to have not picked up on the danger in front of him, but it didn't matter.

The spell was broken and Sam's mind shouted a desperate warning at him he had only a second to obey.

Turning violently, he wrapped his hands around Lucas's chest and shoved, nearly threw the boy to his brother.

He didn't see whether or not Dean managed to catch Lucas, because the dock exploded then, up and out and away, all at once, seeming to literally disintegrate under Sam's feet while he was simultaneously flung outward with vicious force.

He hit the water hard enough to set his ears ringing, and he only had time to gasp one huge, frantic breath before he was pulled under.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Dean's head had jerked up when he'd heard Sam's yell, racing around the front of the house without another single thought for the Sheriff or Andrea or even John.

Slowing when he viewed the tableau in front of him, he advanced forward cautiously.

Sam seemed to be edging his way carefully to where a frozen Lucas stood near the end of the dock. Dean's skin started crawling when he finally caught sight of the ghost, dripping hair dark against fish belly white skin, angry eyes seeming to glow with malice.

It was so cold Dean's breath was coming out in a cloud in front of his face, and he could hear the others come up behind him.

"Lucas!" Came Andrea's panicked voice, thankfully muffled by a quick-thinking John's hand.

"You can't go out there, that's what it wants!' He heard John warn lowly.

Dean kept his eyes on Sam, who had managed to get to Lucas, and was backing slowly down the dock ,towards Dean. Dean saw the shift in the ghost's features, saw it sink into the water, realized it was going in for the attack.

'Sam!" He called out, a low desperate warning, and somehow, Sam must have understood, even though Dean himself didn't know quite what he was saying, because Sam practically threw Lucas at Dean, and then suddenly everything was just _gone_.

Dean was knocked clear onto the thin edge of rocky beach, head ringing. He could hear the others behind him regaining there feet, but his eyes were on the water, searching frantically. He'd nearly managed to catch Lucas, had felt the boys shirt sleeve brush his finger tips, but now the child was nowhere to be seen.

Neither was Sam.

Dean ran into the water, diving under far to soon, he was lucky he didn't snap his neck on a rock. He could here his father behind him in the water, and when he came up next, he called out, "Look for Lucas! I'm going after Sam!"

"Dean!" He heard his father call, but Dean didn't stop, didn't slow, cutting smoothly through the water until he reached his best estimation of where Sam would have gone in. Jackknifing down smoothly, he tried to see through the murky water, searching for any sign of Sam.

Coming up to double check his location, he met his father's grim eyes from a few yards away, John's quick shake of the head let him know he hadn't fared any better in his search for Lucas.

Beyond panicked, he dove down again. This time, he caught sight of a pale shape a few yards away, and he recognized the light blue of Sam's t-shirt.

Kicking over, he could just barely make out what had happened. Sam's jean's were torn at the bottom, one ragged end caught in the splintered portion of the dock that had somehow already managed to sink down, effectively pinning Sam to the lake bottom.

With a start, he realized Sam was awake still, kicking his legs desperately, flailing his arms in an attempt to get loose. His water logged jeans hugged his legs like a second skin, and Dean doubted they had the time to get them off, because Sam was already moving less, kicking slower.

Dean grabbed Sam's leg, adding his own strength, but there was no way to get leverage, no purchase to be gained under the water, and Dean had no idea how Sam was even still conscious, because already his own lungs were screaming for air.

Sam knew it too, and he grabbed Dean's shoulders weakly. Dean grabbed Sam's face, trying to get him to focus on Dean, to fight losing consciousness and breathing in water.

Sam's eyes were losing focus, though and with the last of his strength, he pushed Dean away, gesturing up, to where the fractured sunlight filtered through the water, weak and distorted.

Dean shook his head in angry denial, but it was too late, Sam's eyes had closed and precious bubbles of air were streaming past his slack lips.

Dean shook him once, but Sam was gone, floating limply, hair drifting like a halo around his head.

Dean reached for his knife, but it wasn't in his back pocket. Knowing he had no choice but to surface, he kicked upwards, gasping when he breached the surface. Looking over, he could see Andrea and John kneeling over a prone Lucas on the bank, but the Sheriff wasn't beside them.

"Where's your brother?" The voice startled Dean, and he turned, treading water to to find the Sheriff beside him.

"Trapped!" Dean gasped. "His pant legs caught on the wreckage, I can't get him out!"

"Here!" A fishing knife was shoved into Dean's hands, and without another moments hesitation, Dean dove again, swimming unerringly for his brother.

A voice in his head was screaming _too-late too-late too-late_, and he knew, _knew_ Sam had been under too long, had lost consciousness too long ago, but Dean was damned if he was leaving Sammy down there.

He sensed more than saw the Sheriff keeping pace with him with long, even strokes, and they reached Sam quicker than Dean expected. Dean realized Sam wasn't really that far down, but that few precious feet would be all it took it they didn't get him out _right now._

Opening the knife, he attacked the leg of Sam's jeans, the water making it nearly impossible to cut the cloth. Strong hands took it from Dean, and the Sheriff motioned for Dean to wrap his arms around Sam, ready to pull when the Sheriff gave the signal.

When the Sheriff motioned, Dean kicked with herculean effort, dragging his lifeless brother to the surface with him.

Using a rescue hold, he started kicking to the shore, where John met him halfway out.

Andrea was rocking a crying Lucas, but Dean only had eyes for his motionless brother.

Sam wasn't white, he was blue, and Dean wasn't getting a pulse. Not even hesitating this time, he launched into chest compressions, and John took up position by Sam's head, counting for Dean and giving the appropriate rescue breaths. A moment passed, and then another and Dean's entire world narrowed down to _one-two-three-four_, wait for John to breathe, again, _one-two-three-four..._

"Come on Sammy, come on, dammit, breathe already bitch! Sam, come on, breathe, SAMMY! Come on!..." Dean chanted without realizing it, verbally pushing his brother as he had all their lives, urging him forward, the way he had taught him to walk, to shoot, to fight.

"Dean..." His father said, a flat, strangled tone in his voice and Dean fixed him with a glare that could have melted iron, never stopping and when John didn't give the rescue breaths after the next round, Dean did it for him.

"Dean.." His father said again, and if Dean had had a free hand in that moment, he would have hit him but he didn't because he was beating Sammy's heart for him and he wasn't stopping until Sam was doing it on his own.

"Dean!" John raised his voice this time, reaching out for his oldest.

"NO!" Dean snarled at him, nearly rabid, and something in his face must have reached through to John, because with the next round, John resumed rescue breathing grimly-

And then Sam coughed weakly.

Dean hauled Sam up and over as Sam emptied what seemed like gallons of water onto the beach beside them, head lolling weakly against Dean's shoulder as Dean rocked him, clutching Sam to him with a white knuckled grip.

"It's okay, you're okay, I gotcha, you're okay, you're okay..." Dean was babbling, he didn't care, he just continued to rock his kid, as they shivered in the cool morning sun on the bank of the lake.

"I hate drowning..." He heard Sam mumble into his shoulder, and suddenly Dean was laughing, the kind of laughter that came with tears and curses and shaking limbs.

He met John's eyes over Sam's sodden, shaking shoulders, and flinched a little. For just a second, there had been a look in John's eyes that Dean couldn't place, but it had every instinct screaming danger.

"Dad?" He said, clutching Sam to him even tighter in that moment, though he couldn't say why.

"The Sheriff never came back out." John finally replied, and Dean didn't think that was the answer to the question he hadn't quite asked, but it would have to be enough.

Sam was breathing. Dean needed a drink. Or a hundred, however many it took to erase to memory of Sam's blue face from his mind. He wrapped his arms even tighter around Sammy, marveling at how small he seemed in that moment.

California sounded fan-freaking-tastic about now.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Okay, so a low action chapter, but realistically, I needed to address the natural fall out of sick Sam. Besides, I figured it was time we spent a little time in Sam's head. Sorry if Sam's illness doesn't contain a ton of details, but my intention was never for it to be the focus as much as how his family reacted to it. I've also taken obvious liberties with medical facts and such the like, lol**

**Trigger Warning for suicidal thoughts. Please read responsibly. **

**As Always,**

_**EverReader**_

**PS- Please please please please review! I will happily discuss my story with you, especially if you have any questions!**

**PPS- If you have been following my other AU, it updated yesterday, and for kicks and giggles I added a poll to my profile, where my readers can let me know what characters they'd like to see cameo.**

**Prisoner of War – Chapter 9**

"**Bullet With My Brother's Name On It"**

**From the personal journal of John Henry Winchester:**

_**God help me, but it's hard to look at Sam now. I know intellectually that he's no different today than he was a year ago, or two years ago, and yet...**_

_**He's an angry child. He was gentle when he was younger, so much so that I worried he wouldn't have what it took to make it as a hunter. Gentleness is a liability in our line of work. But now, as every day goes by, it seems like he grows angrier, more defiant, more rebellious. Perhaps it's simply that he's a teenager now.**_

_**But what if it's not? What if it's the influence of the Demon blood making itself known? The poison has hidden inside him for years, and God only knows how it has changed him. I try to push him harder to keep him focused, on the family, on the mission, but his anger makes him careless, makes him dangerous. I fear his disobedience won't just get him killed, but his brother too. I find myself wondering if I should send Dean away for his own safety, but I don't, partially because I can't quite bring myself to let go of him completely. **_

_**Partially because then I would have to take control of Sam full time, and God help me, he may be my child but sometimes I look at him and see his mother burning on the ceiling.**_

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam wasn't sick for days, he was sick for _weeks_.

He probably-no, definitely should have been in a hospital, at least for the first couple of days, but John was adamant that they stay below the radar, insisting that they could handle it themselves. Sam had already missed quite a bit of school this year, and his array of bruises and injuries would raise questions the Winchesters couldn't afford to field, with Sammy still just being sixteen.

Dean hated it, but Family Services had gone after the brothers a few times in the past, and Dean was no more willing than John to let the social workers have a stab at their family.

Sam probably would have ended up in the hospital anyway, but a frantic call placed by Dean to Bobby had the older hunter cashing in a favor. Sam had spiked a nearly one-hundred and five degree fever, and social workers or no, that was simply to damn high for Dean and John to deal with on their own.

Fortunately, Bobby seemed to somehow have contacts everywhere. Less than an hour after Dean had called Bobby, visit from a local doctor confirmed Sam's official status as 'walking wounded'. The laundry list of problems the doctor found with just his cursory exam made Dean's stomach churn.

A concussion, two stitches that needed to be re-sewn along Sam's scalp, a badly wrenched knee, scrapes on his hands that were edging toward infected, all on top of what the Doctor had sarcastically labeled as "walking pneumonia" , as in, Sam's happy-ass needed to be walked into the emergency room.

He'd pressed his lips together so tightly they'd turned white, shaking his head in obvious disapproval when John declined. Reluctantly, the Doctor given Sam an injection of a strong combo of antibiotics, warning the Winchester s that if it turned out to be viral pneumonia instead of bacterial, they would be finding it out at Sam's autopsy.

He'd left Dean and John with three pages of notes, instructions, directions for medications, and new symptoms to watch out for.

Dean had sat vigil at Sam's bedside, ready with pain killers, fever reducers, juice and the ever present antibiotics.

Fortunately, the drugs seemed to work, though it took nearly six days for Sam crest the hill of his illness and start down the slow road to recovery. He'd slept away whole days, when the coughing would allow him to, anyway, and Dean had ended up propping him up with every pillow in their room in attempt to ease his breathing. Dean would have to force him awake to stay on schedule with his medicines, and to at least try to stay hydrated.

He lost weight quickly, as was his habit any time his body was under duress, and Dean eventually had to start battling him to eat, forcing soup and protein shakes on him. He lost track of time easily, and Dean once had to tell him the day of the week three times in the short hour he managed to stay alert.

Sam would wake up confused and wary, jerking from any unexpected touch or noise. Dean learned a few days into Sam's illness just how much Sam's hand to hand combat skills had improved, the fading bruise along his jaw a lasting souvenir.

Dean wondered if what had happened back at the lake had frightened Sam worse than he let on, because Dean had been in charge of Sammy whenever the kid was sick for as long as he could remember, and he'd never seen the kid jumpy and defensive like he was being now. He hoped it was just because Sam had never been quite this sick before.

Sam fought against taking the medicine, fought the wet cloths Dean placed on his brow to try to lower his fever, shook off Dean's hands when Dean would try to help him to the bathroom.

Honestly, Sam was so out of it, Dean wasn't even sure if he was aware he was doing it most of the time. Independent by nature, a sick and delirious Sammy 2.0 seemed to view any interference, no matter how well meaning, as an attack.

Eventually, Sam's periods of lucidity grew longer, and the coughing finally started to abate, albeit far more slowly than Dean would have preferred. He was starting to stay awake longer and longer, and his fever started lingering in the two-digit range again, though it took very little to set it off again.

Sam remained suspiciously quiet, however, even once he was on the mend. He would answer a direct question, said 'please' and 'thank you', but try as he might, Dean couldn't get his little brother to engage in any real conversation. He'd tried bringing up Lake Manitoc, and what had happened with Peter, but Sam would only shake his head tiredly, turning his face away and going back to sleep.

Or pretending to anyway.

Dean had tried everything else he could think of, trying to get Sam to talk about what classes he hoped his next school would have, asking him about the nerdy mythology book Sam had been reading before the shit hit the proverbial fan, hell, he even tried to get Sam to talk about politics.

Dean hated politics, thought politicians were all liars, that voting and the judicial system and everything else of that nature was nothing but organized crime.

Dean was all for personal freedom, but in his opinion, that meant he didn't have to personally get involved with a system he felt impacted him very little anyway.

It drove Sam crazy, that Dean could somehow manage to not have an opinion on things like immigration, tax breaks for big business, or the atmosphere.

Or at least it used to.

But no matter what Dean tried, Sam simply wouldn't play ball. He shrug his shoulders, eyes anywhere but on Dean. Or he'd answer with monosyllables, "yes", "no" and Dean's personal, all time favorite, "Fine."

He didn't seem to be angry, though, or sad or scared or anything else that Dean could see. He just seemed...empty.

Dean refused to dwell on it too much, choosing to believe that Sam would bounce back, that the strain of their last hunt on top of Sam's illness would be enough to take anyone out of commission for a while.

He chose not to think about how strange Sam had been acting before they'd ever gotten to Lake Manitoc, how strange he'd been acting since Dean had left to help Caleb with his ghoul problem.

Everything would work out, because it had to.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Sam opened his eyes with a grimace, closing them quickly again as the early morning sunlight sent a shooting stab of pain through his tender head. The fever combined with the non-stop coughing, concussion and hairline stitches had lead to Sam taking more headache medicine in the past few weeks than he had in perhaps the whole rest of his life.

Tentatively, he cracked open one eye lid, verifying, as he's suspected, that Dean had laid a fresh dose of pain killers and antibiotics next to a glass of water on the nightstand before he'd laid down a few hours ago.

Flexing his hand experimentally, he deemed his grip as steady enough to handle the glass of water, and he eased his arm out from under the blanket. Grasping the handful of pills, he dry swallowed them, almost gagging because of the dryness of his throat. He gulped a too-large gulp of water reflexively, which, naturally brought on that mornings first (of no doubt many) rounds of coughing.

After a few moments, he got his breath back, glad Dean appeared to be out of the room for the moment. John had left several days ago, to get started on the hunt in Jericho, California. Dean had seemed a little nonplussed at John's leaving so soon after everything that has happened with Sam, but Sam couldn't really find it in him to be surprised.

If he was honest with himself, he was more surprised that John had helped save him, those two times at the lake. He could only assume John had done it for Dean's sake.

Slow and ungraceful, he levered himself to a sitting position, placing his bare feet against the chill of the floor. Slightly more alert now, he saw the note on the table, Dean's untidy scrawl marching across the paper like grim little soldiers.

"Went for some supplies. Back in a hour. CALL ME IF YOU HAVE ANY PROBLEMS!"

The word "any" had half a dozen lines under it for emphasis, and Sam blew out a long breath. His plan to keep his cold on the down low had obviously failed, as had his plan to prove to Dean and John that he was a capable hunter, _a useful hunter._

Dean and John had needed to rescue Sam no less then three times back at the lake, and Sam was furious with himself. He couldn't be weak like that any more.

He couldn't afford to be sad or mad or scared, or _weak_.

Being weak meant the monsters won.

He eyed the distance from his bed to the bathroom speculatively.

God, he felt gross. And the humidity of the shower might help his chest loosen up a little.

Deciding to chance it, he rose unsteadily, leaning against the wall for a moment to catch his balance. Once he was pretty sure the furniture and walls were all were they were supposed to be, he started forward, still favoring his bad knee.

He could already feel his shaking as his fever threatened to return, brought on by his exertion, but that only made Sam more determined to get his shower before Dean returned and hustled him back into bed like a sick child.

Once upon a time, the care Dean would shower Sam with whenever he was ill had would make Sam feel loved and cared for, filling in the gaping space left in his life by a murdered mother and an absent father.

But now that Sam knew the truth, knew that _he_ was responsible for the death of his mother, knew _he_ was the reason his father stayed away so often, Dean's attention felt dirty somehow, tarnished, or maybe it was Sam that dirty and undeserving.

Whatever the reason, Sam felt like squirming under Dean's careful ministrations, felt like edging away from every touch, any bit of affection. He didn't deserve it, and it would only make it harder for Sam to deal with what he now knew.

Finally, after what felt like decades, he reached the bathroom. Pushing the bathroom door closed behind him, he gratefully locked it, relishing his first bit of privacy in weeks.

Momentarily exhausted, he collapsed onto to closed lid to the toilet, catching his breath in whistling gasps. When he regained a little bit of his strength, he slowly stood again, shedding his sweaty clothes, wrinkling his nose at the thought of how long he must have been wearing them.

Dean took good care of Sam when he was sick, Sam would never say otherwise, but Dean's opinion of just what constituted as clean differed greatly from Sam's.

Scowling at his greasy hair in the mirror, he leaned down to turn on the water. Swaying a little with a momentary head rush, he forced a deep breath and turned the water on, as hot as it could go.

Steam gathered quickly in the chilly room, and Sam felt his skin prickle with gooseflesh as he gave the water another moment to get actually hot. Dean had mentioned gleefully that for once John had stashed them away in a room with a decent water heater, and Sam was grateful for that tidbit of information now.

Stepping under the spray, he let out a sigh so deep in segued into a cough. Feeling his tension start to melt away under the warm needles of water, he slid down to the bottom of the shower, too tired to stand anymore and to stubborn to get out.

His shampoo was a million miles away at the other end of the tub, and Sam didn't particularly care about that either. He wanted to just sit there under the hot spray for the rest of his life, letting the hot water wash everything away, his illness, his memories of the last several weeks, heck, he'd let it was away his whole life if he could, walk out of the bathroom shiny and new and no longer Sam Winchester.

But Sam knew that no matter how hot he got the water, it could never reach the stain deep inside him, the taint of darkness he imagined sometimes he could see crawling up his arms, under his skin, dancing along his veins like poison. When he looked in the mirror, he'd search his features, search his eyes for some glimpse of the monster living under his skin.

He tilted his head up, into the spray, so he could pretend away the tears, since he couldn't pretend away the darkness.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean opened the door as quietly as he could, juggling his keys and the small bag of groceries. All attempts at silence were quickly abandoned at the sight of Sam's empty bed, and he felt a momentary sense of panic.

Hearing the shower going a second later, though, he relaxed slightly, going over to the mini-fridge and quickly unloading the juice and Gatorade he'd bought, along with the sandwich meat.

Straightening, he walked quickly over to the bathroom door, attempting to turn it without a second's thought. Scowling when he discovered it was locked, he rolled his eyes at Sam's ridiculousness.

Dean had changed the kids diapers, for Christ's sake, hell, he'd taught him to _aim_, and now Sam was self-conscious?

"Yo, Sammy, how ya doing?" Dean hollered, banging on the door. He frowned when he didn't get a response.

"SAM!" He raised his voice, banging once more. "You still alive?"

He gave it another few seconds, counting silently to ten in his head before using one elbow to force the flimsy door open. Steam poured out of the bathroom, and Dean frowned when he realized that Sam probably had the water turned so hot because his fever was back.

Crossing the small room in only two steps, he pulled the curtain back. Eyes widening when he saw his brother, pale and still, sitting on the floor of the tub, he leaned forward, heedless of the needling spray of the hot water.

"Sammy!" He cried, snagging Sam by one wet shoulder.

"What?" Sam jerked, eyes wide and hands coming up instinctively, and Dean realized with a relieved amusement bordering on annoyance that the kid had somehow managed to fall asleep under the comfort of the warm water.

Scowling, he said "Seriously, dude? You think this is the place for a nap?"

Sam looked back at him blankly for a moment, before responding, "Honestly, I thought it was a place for some privacy." He blinked disjointedly, giving his head a little shake to wake himself up more, and Dean tried not to feel the sting of rejection. He reminded himself that he'd startled the still sick kid, and Sam had been notoriously private about his body for a while now.

He shook his head, backing up. "Finish up before you lose hot water, Sam, you got the thing set hotter than hell as it is. If you're well enough to shower, you can eat some real food."

"Sure, Dean. Fine, whatever, just...go." He gestured, looking at Dean like Dean was crazy and Dean just shrugged again and left the room, leaving the broken door cracked in case Sam needed him.

With Sam's luck, they'd be having a good day if the kid managed not to drown in the shower.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam let out a frustrated breath as Dean finally retreated.

Of course he hadn't meant to fall asleep in the shower, but that didn't mean Dean needed to just let himself in. He'd practically climbed into the tub with Sam and then looked hurt when Sam hinted that he wanted privacy.

He shook his head again as he finished rinsing conditioner from his hair.

Dean had never really had a good sense of boundaries when it came to Sam. Most of the time, Sam took it in stride. Living in one room motels, sleeping in the same bed, camping out in the Impala, they couldn't really help but be in each others personal space all the time.

And Dean had spent sixteen years cooking, cleaning and doing just about everything else for Sam, so it wasn't particularly surprising that he wouldn't think twice about coming in the bathroom to check on his sick brother, naked or not.

But now that Sam knew just how different he really was from Dean, their former closeness stung, rubbed in the fact that though Dean might be inherently good (Sam was, in fact sure this was the case, had never doubted Dean's essential goodness), Sam was something else.

Sam didn't want his darkness to destroy Dean the way he was already sure it would destroy him.

Thinking back to the strange things that had happened to him during their last hunt, Sam thought perhaps the darkness was already rising up in him, drawing the monsters to him.

Looking into the mirror, he wiped away the condensation, searching again for the evil that crept through his veins.

It was one thing if the darkness meant the monsters came after him. Sam had accepted that he was in for a bloody end. Villains didn't get happy endings, and Sam wasn't made of the stuff of heroes.

Quite the contrary, in fact.

But the moment Sam thought his darkness endangered his brother, he'd put a bullet in his brain, cardinal sin or not.

If the demons getting their hands on Sam early meant Dean didn't get dragged down with him, he'd do it without hesitation.

He owed it to Dean, for taking care of him, for being the reason Dean didn't have a home.

For being the reason Dean didn't have a mother.

No. Sam wouldn't hesitate.

Once it had been a matter of choosing between his brother or a bullet, but now Sam knew how much worse the story's ending could actually be.

It might turn out that the only way to choose his brother would be to choose the bullet.

And suicides went to hell.

Especially kids with demon blood in them.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Yay, on to the next case! And yes, if you are reading this in shock, saying to yourself that there is absolutely no way the EverReader managed to update all FOUR of her current projects in a twenty-four hour period, the answer is, no, I did it in a nineteen hour period, because **

**A. I am a BAMF**

**B. I am also an insomniac.**

**So kids, if that doesn't impress you all to the point of reviewing wildly and throwing roses and money, go read one of my other, newly updated projects, because, just to recap ALL FOUR HAVE NOW BEEN UPDATED SINCE SEVEN-THIRTY LAST NIGHT.**

**Seriously though, I need sleep right now like some people need Jesus.**

**Okay. Here we go-**

"**Prisoner of War"- UPDATED!( Next case, who wants to see Sam take on Constance?)**

"**All the Pretty Monsters"-UPDATED!( DARK DARK DARK, but kinda fun too. Check out my profile if you haven't voted on the character poll for this bad boy story yet. Balthasar has been added as a new option at a reader's request!)**

"**Confessions of a Boy King"-UPDATED! (I really love chapter two of this one, please check it out, it debuted last month on a Friday, and readership has been low, but I'm really pleased with it so far. CC, Sam Centric, and never any Dean bashing)**

"**How To Fix a Winchester"-UPDATED!(This is my newest baby, and yes, I will accept CC prompts for this one.)**

**Go check them out and read-read-read and then REVIEW!**

**Okay...need to sleep now.**

**As Always,**

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Honestly, too tired for this right now. Think appropriate non-ownership thoughts while reading this.**

Prisoner of War – Chapter 10

"Writing On The Wall"

Dean closed the door behind him as quietly as he could, attempting to not wake his _finally _sleeping little brother.

He hadn't wanted to move Sam at all, hesitant to risk his recent recovery and to stray too far from the Doctor who had continued to grace them with regular (albeit belligerent) house calls.

John had been adamant that he needed the back up though, and Dean was also nervous that John had already been without a partner for nearly three weeks now, so he'd reluctantly loaded up his barely-better kid brother in the car. He bullied the Doctor into writing them a half a dozen more prescriptions for later use if necessary, and they hit the road. He'd stopped over night twice on the drive up, stretching out a trip that he would normally do overnight to a nearly three day project, a compromise between the demands of the hunt and his screaming need to protect his still-vulnerable brother.

Sam himself had said nothing about John's order to move on, simply packing up his duffel with slow, determined movements, shrugging off all of Dean's offers of assistance.

Sam's cough had mostly tapered off, and he hadn't run a fever in a few days, a recovery the Doctor had labeled as outright miraculous. His knee seemed better, and Dean had caught Sam taking his own stitches out the day before they'd left the motel. The concussion had long since healed, as much as any concussion ever really healed, though with Sam's recent changes in behavior, he was starting to wonder if maybe the kid really had hit his head one time too many.

Sam's stubborn, independent streak might be what started giving Dean gray hair at the tender age of twenty.

Sam had been pushing himself too hard, too fast, and Dean worried he was going to make himself sicker if he didn't ease off.

Dad didn't seem to think much of it, but Dean told himself it was just because John didn't realize how sick Sammy had actually gotten. John had never been too good with the day to day maintenance of the boys, and Dean assumed John's clueless-ness was the natural result of his demanding job.

Besides which, sick Sammy had always been Dean's department anyway.

Double checking that the motel room door had locked behind him, he jogged out to the Impala.

John was sending him over to the town library to look for murder victims in the area. John himself hadn't had any luck locating a murdered woman like the one mentioned in the local ghost story.

Normally a job like that would be Sam's division, with Dean hitting the streets with John and the fake badge he was finally old enough to use.

Dean wasn't letting Sam research on his own yet, though, so he was going to bring back whatever he could to the room, so he could keep an eye on Sammy, and try and get some food in him later.

Miracle recovery or not, Sam wasn't anywhere close to one hundred percent, and Dean had had enough close calls to last him a lifetime.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam's eyes opened, muscles relaxing slowly as he heard the muffled sound of the Impala engine moving away.

He loved Dean, would die for him, would go to hell for him in a heartbeat.

But dear lord, that guy could _hover_.

For a dude who had an iron clad rule against chick-flick moments, Dean could take mothering to whole new, Olympian levels.

He sat up slowly, but not near as slowly as he'd been moving only a week before.

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled out again, testing his breathing, pushing his lungs. The cough came, much as he had expected, but the ache was a good ache, at least compared to the previous feeling of swimming inside his own lungs. This ache felt like he could at least pretend his health was on an upswing. He stood, stretching his back, cracking the joints in his hands, then took a careful step forward, followed by another, this time testing his knee.

He'd been waiting for Dean to leave the room, willing to _pay_ for some privacy at this point if that was what it took.

Well meaning though he was, Dean was practically smothering him, and Sam was finding himself exhausted with the constant need to watch his every move and action. The words that circled his head continually, those devastating, damning words that would change how his brother looked at him forever were always seeking egress, and Sam felt like he had to measure every word, taste every syllable before loosing it into the air.

It was draining, and more times than not, Sam simply remained silent, unable to make small talk while battling the darker thoughts in his head. He knew it was upsetting Dean, but Sam simply couldn't help it.

He woke up every day with the need to bleed out his secrets, to shout them out, echoing and angry into the damn universe, a screaming urge to break things, to throw chairs out the windows, to shoot at the walls and set things on fire.

Sam wanted to take that stupid journal of his father's and rip every page out, shredding those stupid words into so much confetti and letting the wind blow his damnation away.

That wasn't really an option, though, so instead, Sam remained silent.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean scowled in frustration, understanding why John had had no luck with locating the potential ghost.

He'd been able to locate all the same victims that John had, eighteen in all, uncovering nothing new in that area, but no matter where he looked, he couldn't find the murdered woman that the girls John had interviewed a few days ago had mentioned.

He glanced at his watch distractedly. He'd already been gone more than two hours, and he wanted to get back to Sam. It was about time for the kid to take his next dose of medicine, and independent streak or not, Dean didn't particularly trust him to take care of himself just yet.

Sam was distressingly nonchalant about his recent health scare, so Dean's big brother instincts remained in over drive.

His phone rang then, startling him and he answered "Sam? You good?" automatically, without thinking.

A pregnant pause at the other end of the line had Dean realizing his mistake, and he grimaced, bracing himself for John's disapproval.

John always cautioned them to answer their phones carefully, to be wary of any law enforcement officials or bad guys who might have somehow gotten their numbers.

One of the missing victims was dating the local Sheriff's daughter, and if their last case had done nothing else (besides nearly killing Sammy), it had brought home the fact that people couldn't be trusted, particularly law enforcement.

"It's me." John's words were terse, clipped and disproving, and Dean grimaced again.

"What have you found?" John asked, and Dean wasn't sure which was worse, that John was skipping the lecture or that John was requesting information Dean hadn't managed to locate yet.

He sighed heavily in defeat. "Sorry, Dad. You're right, I can't find a single female murder victim matching the profile, and I've gone back sixty years. The microfiche doesn't go back any further."

"You'll have to hit the stacks and start pulling hard copies, then." John said, as if Dean were a slacking employee, and Dean fought down a pang of irritation.

"What about Sam?" He asked as civilly as he could, moderating his voice to erase any trace of defiance.

"Have your brother help." Came John's reply, as if Dean were stupid for even asking the question.

Dean rolled his eyes skyward, grateful John couldn't see his attitude.

"He's back at the motel, Dad. He was asleep when I left. I need to grab up some food and go check in on him." Dean said cautiously.

The silence stretched out for a long moment, and Dean imagined his father was counting silently in his head.

"Why isn't he helping you?" John finally questioned, and Dean felt like a witness for the defense.

"Because he has pneumonia?" Dean offered, alarmed at the idea that he was actually _arguing_ with John.

"_Had_ pneumonia." John correctly shortly. "His stamina won't return if you keep coddling him. If he's not there, you'll have to do it yourself. There's a diner a couple of blocks from the motel. He's a big boy, Dean. He won't starve."

John hung up, the silence at the other end ringing with finality in Dean's ears and he sighed again, closing his eyes wearily.

This time he counted to ten, and when he finished, he opened his phone back up, punching in Sam's number.

Hi listened as the line began to ring at the other end.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam stepped out of the shower, scowling as he nearly tripped on a pair of jeans laying on the ground outside the bathroom door. Looking around the room, his scowl deepened.

For all his demands that the boys keep their belongings in inspection-ready condition, John himself could be quite a slob when he was caught up in a case.

Piles of photos, newspaper clippings, and photocopies had spread out around the room, interspersed with gear, books and old take out containers.

For all Dean's worrying that leaving the room might make Sam have a relapse, Sam thought it more likely he would catch something from the motel room, with the way it looked right now.

Dean's pallet beside Sam's bed looked more like a nest, and Sam wasn't entirely sure where his duffel actually was.

Deciding the only way out was through, he squared his shoulders and set to cleaning, quickly filling three small trash bags. Once the trash was gone, he set to sorting out the gear into three piles, finally locating his duffel and pulling on the last of his clean clothes.

Making a mental note to hit the laundromat the next time he had access to the Impala, he walked over to the small mini-fridge, taking out a protein shake and popping the top absent-mindedly.

He made a face at the taste, but continued to drink it. His appetite was still nonexistent, but Sam knew he couldn't afford to lose as much weight as he had. The lost muscle mass alone impeded his abilities as a hunter, and Sam didn't want someone dying on his watch because he hadn't made himself keep up his strength.

Besides which, Dean was going to keep trying to feed him like a mother bird until Sam bulked back up some.

He wandered back over the the remaining piles of research, bored and needing to keep himself busy. Despite the exhaustion that was already rearing it's ugly head, Sam doubted he'd get back to sleep anytime soon. Nightmares had plagued his sleep, even before the influx of ghost children riding bloody bicycles, and Sam found himself waking several times a night, now that he wasn't doped up on enough medicine to knock out a moose.

He started sorting the various piles, matching photos to victim profiles and police reports. He taped a map to one wall, and started marking locations as he finished with each set of files. He frowned a little, racking his brain to try to remember everything he'd heard Dad and Dean discussing about the case.

John had done an astonishing amount of research in the time he'd been gone, and yet, something felt off to Sam.

John didn't normally take so long to close a case, and Sam wondered if something had happened between the time he'd left the boys and the time he'd reached Jericho to set him back.

Putting that thought aside to worry at later, he started taping photos along the wall, making a time line the way he'd seen John do before, when the research had piled up to high manage any other way.

Finally, he stood in the center of the room, appraising his work. He turned, taking in the photos, and all the locations marked on the map.

Obviously, John was right about the stretch of Highway 17 being the ghost's (if it was a ghost) hunting ground, but once again, he couldn't find the link between the victims.

They were all male, it was true, but other than that, they shared no other commonalities.

Different races, different ages, none of the men were related to each other.

He walked back over to the map, tapping his finger on the spot where he'd marked an 'x' for the most recent victim.

The car had been found, half-way across both lanes of an old bridge that crossed the river.

The other victims had disappeared from various points along the highway, but this was the third time an abandoned car had been found on the bridge.

Sam doubted that was a coincidence.

He paced back in forth for a moment, willing the memory dancing along the edge of his thoughts forward, waiting as it took shape.

Deaths and water. They were looking for a murder victim, or even a car accident victim, since all the men were in cars when they disappeared.

But ghosts were the result of any kind of violent death.

He walked quickly back over to the various photos, studying the features of each man. Never younger than sixteen or so, there seemed to be no other defining criteria for the way the ghost was cherry picking her victims.

Sam stopped suddenly as his thoughts clicked into place, glancing once more at the map and the research to confirm his suspicions.

Grabbing up his jacket, he let himself out of the motel. Blinking back the sudden shock of the sunlight hitting his eyes for what felt like the first time in days, he headed towards the road.

Sam had listened the night before when John had given Dean directions to the library, and he struck out that way, ignoring the burn in his legs and chest from the unexpected exertion.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean listened anxiously as Sam's phone went to voice mail. Hanging up, he immediately re-dialed, reassuring himself that Sammy was probably just taking a shower.

"Dean!" The voice from behind Dean startled him so badly his phone clattered to the table, and he turned, hand half-way to his gun.

"Shoot me later!" Sam said with breathless grin, and Dean surged forward, guiding his unsteady brother into a chair. Sam was pale and breathing hard, with high spots of color gracing each cheek.

"The hell, Sammy! You scared the piss out of me! Why are you here? Where's Dad" Dean looked around, expecting John to turn the corner any moment.

Sam looked at him, wary confusion widening his eyes. "Umm, I think he's still interviewing witnesses, unless he told you differently since last night." He replied.

Dean's eyes bugged out. "No. No. Do not tell me you walked your ass over here, Sammy, because I might very well kick it all the way back if you do." He threatened, only partially exaggerating.

Sam paused, studying his brother. "Uhh-hmm." He closed his mouth again, looking anywhere but at Dean suddenly and Dean fought down the urge to throttle the kid.

"Come on, right now!" He ordered, dragging Sam up behind him, gathering his research up haphazardly in his arms.

Sam pulled away though.

"No, Dean, wait. I figured it out. Well, maybe I figured it out. We need to look for suicides, not just murder victims. Suicide counts as violent death, and three of the abandoned cars were on a bridge. Dean, I think it might be a woman in white, like Bobby took out a few years back, when I was staying with him for a couple of months." Sam's words were fast, his voice still sounding somewhat breathless.

Dean paused, struck as always with guilty discomfort whenever he was reminded of the fact that his time at Sonny's, though one of the best in his life, meant that Sam had been alone with John for two months.

John had promptly dumped him at Bobby's, and fortunately for Dean, Bobby had managed admirably.

But taking care of Sam was Dean's job. Dean should have been a Sam's soccer matches, should have been teaching him to bow-hunt.

Focusing on Sam's words again, he ran back over all the lore he'd ever heard about women in white. The victim profile certainly fit, but they'd need to locate a suicide victim whose children had died suspiciously right before her own death.

"And you couldn't have just called me this information over your damn phone, which you apparently left in the motel, still I was trying to call you when you showed up." Dean said in irritation.

Sam flushed guiltily. "Uhh...huh." He said, blushing. "Actually that just never occurred to me." Sam said frankly.

Dean rolled his eyes in irritation and reached out automatically, feeling Sam's forehead to make sure it was just exertion and not fever making his cheeks and eyes so bright.

Sam waved him off, ducking under Dean's hand and reaching for a stack of newspapers.

"We need to go back at least thirty years back, I'd guess." Sam was saying, and Dean shook his head, mental gears reluctantly switching back over to their case.

Knowing that Dad would be furious if they didn't follow Sam's lead ASAP, he decided the quickest way to get Sam back to the motel was to find their suicide victim. Dean wanted to get Sam back in bed sooner, rather than later, so he grabbed the next stack of newspapers, diving in with a vengeance.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: And here we go with the next chapter of "Prisoner of War". Just a reminder, if you're following "All the Pretty Monsters", it updated Tuesday, and my two newest projects, "How to Fix a Winchester" and "Confessions of a Boy King" both updated on Sunday. Please check them out if you get a chance. **

**Super excited, because Sunday I set a new personal best for number of views in one day, and I am totally on track for my visitor/view goals for this month.**

**So thank you-thank you-thank you to all my readers, because I really appreciate your time and support!**

**Reviews are love!**

**Next update scheduled for this weekend. Just about ready for a more action filled chapter. Just had to get everything set up just right.**

**Enjoy, and please, please review.**

**Prisoner of War- Chapter 11**

"**Madness By Moonlight"**

**From The Personal Journal Of John Henry Winchester**

"_**Sam continues to rebel against the hunter's life. I wish it could be different, for him, for Dean. But for Sam, at least, I can see no chance for a normal life. Any civilian he get's close to would become a target. And day by day, I grow more doubtful that he can over come the influence of the Demon blood. I find myself entertaining dark thoughts.**_

_**Frightening, horrible thoughts.**_

_**Thoughts of the actions I might have to take if I cannot save Sam.**_

_**I cannot allow him to give in to the darkness that dwells inside of him. True, evil swims in his veins, but so does my blood, so does Mary's. If I just keep pushing him, keep him focused on the hunt, perhaps I can channel his darkness."**_

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Sam walked through the dusty aisles of the library. Dust motes danced in the dim light and he fought back the urge to cough. It was after seven and the library closed in half an hour.

They'd been at it over an hour already, and exhaustion dragged at Sam's body, making his limbs liquid and heavy.

They started going back, week by week in the local newspapers, but looking through hard copies of obituaries was long, slow work, and Sam was beginning to worry they wouldn't find what they needed before the librarian kicked them out.

The reference section was already supposed to be closed for the night, but Dean had sweet talked the head librarian's assistant to make a special allowance for them.

Sam supposed he should be glad Dean was so easy going with the ladies, but in all honesty, sometimes he found Dean's heart breaker ways a little distasteful. Dean was never troubled by it, considering it merely one of the perks/pitfalls of the hunter's life, but Sam had never really acquired the knack for one night stands, nor had he ever really felt to draw of them either.

Wondering if perhaps Dean could work just a little more magic on the librarian, he decided to see if he could take one more look in her computer. The library in Jericho was small, with only two computers, one of which was broken, and the other behind the counter.

He headed back towards the front.

A chill washed over his skin as he passed the corner of the last rack, and he stopped instinctively, reaching for his knife.

He hovered, poised on the balls of his feet, waiting, listening.

Nothing was to be seen, however, and the chill didn't return. Moreover, Sam didn't particularly feel like he was no longer alone.

It was hard to explain, that hunter's sense of company, of no longer being the only creature in a room.

Sam's had always been well honed, and lately, as evidenced back at the lake, his instincts for that kind of thing had gone off the charts.

Sam just wished it was for a different reason.

He backed up slowly, shrugging his shoulder blades against the prickling discomfort as the chills again crawled up and down his spine.

Okay.

He could take a hint. Moving in closer to the racks, he began scanning the shelf's contents, reaching out when one binder in particular caught his eye.

It looked exactly the same as every other binder on the shelf, and yet, it didn't.

Maybe Sam was just imagining it, but he could swear it felt cold.

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Dean looked at his watch, frowning. Sam had been wandering for racks for more than fifteen minutes, and the cute librarian was quickly morphing into the cute-and-extremely-annoyed librarian.

He stood, wiping his dusty hands on his jeans. His stomach rumbled, and he berated himself for not getting them out of there earlier in order to eat something.

They had gotten caught up in following Sam's new lead, and Dean had to admit, as disquieting as Sam's new attitude was, it was nice to not always be on the defensive with him, to not always be in the middle of an argument about _school-life-hunting-Dad._

He wandered in the direction Sam had gone, listening intently. The whole library was hushed, even more silent than usual, the Winchester's the last remaining patrons. Most of the lights were already dimmed or out completely, the Winchester's table an island of light in a sea of gloom.

Moving into the shadows, he wandered up the next aisle a little more quickly, intent on locating Sam and then dinner, in that exact order, and if they had to start over tomorrow, than that's what they would have to do.

He nearly stumbled over Sam, who appeared to have sat down exactly where he had stopped, a large binder of laminated new sheets in his lap.

"Watch it!" Sam said, mildly enough, half ducking in instinct in case his big brother landed on him.

"The hell, Sammy. I just about landed in your lap." Dean grumbled, crouching beside him.

"That'd make the librarian jealous." Sam said distractedly, as he turned the book around so that the words faced the right way for Dean to read.

"I think I found her." Sam said simply.

"Constance Welch." Dean whistled. "She was a looker, wasn't she?'

Sam looked at him blankly. "She was also cremated." He pointed out, frowning.

"Shit." Dean replied, and Sam nodded.

"Pretty much." He agreed, before checking that no one was watching as he removed the the laminated sheet and rolled it just enough to slide up his jacket sleeve.

Dean raised his eyebrow, impressed that Sam was so matter of fact about the theft of research materials.

He chose not to be alarmed that the old Sam would never have done it, instead focusing on the fact that now they could go get some food.

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Sam poked at his salad dispiritedly as he waited for Dean to finish up his burger. He'd managed to finish the soup and most of his milkshake, at least, so Dean should lay off him about eating for a while, anyway.

He was staring at the news article, which he'd spread out once the waitress had removed his empty soup bowl. He was tapping his finger distractedly against the Formica table top, the beat keeping time with the pounding in his head.

The headache hadn't come on full force, luckily, they way they had all too often lately. Instead, it danced subtly along the edge of his consciousness, and Sam was determined to ignore it if it killed him.

"It says she jumped off the bridge shortly after she phoned 9-1-1 to report her two children had accidentally drowned in the tub" Sam read aloud.

Dean frowned, and thankfully swallowed before asking "How old were the kids?"

Sam sighed. "Four and six." He answered heavily.

Dean shook his head. "Well, I know they say you're never too old to drown, but four and six seem a little old to drown in the bath tub. Especially both at the same time."

Sam nodded in agreement. "It certainly supports the Woman in White theory. Scorned woman killing her children in a moment of temporary insanity, then killing herself in remorse. The bridge ties it all in, Women in White tend to haunt waterways and coastlines, and that whole stretch of highway borders the river."

"It might support your theory, but it doesn't give us much of a plan of action. She's already cremated." Dean swallowed the last of his burger morosely. John was not going to be happy.

Sam frowned into his cup. "Maybe she has another weakness..." He said softly, and Dean looked up, curiosity kindled by the odd sound in Sam's voice.

"What are you thinking?" He asked, watching his brother intently.

"There must be something left, somewhere, that she's tied to. Her husband's still alive, though it says he moved away shortly after her death. Guilt, probably. His infidelity triggered her madness, which is probably why she killed her kids." Sam said, lost in thought.

Dean snorted. "That's no damn excuse for killing your kids." He said heatedly, and Sam nodded absentmindedly, eyes tracing over the article again, though he knew it practically by heart by now.

Dean popped a fry in his mouth. "So, you're saying, that the victims, all those guys..." He waved another fry around for emphasis, and Sam nodded.

"Yeah. Cheaters, is my guess. Women in White target unfaithful men. You might want to be careful." Sam added, as an after thought, finishing the last of his milkshake.

Dean looked up from where he was signing the fake credit card bill.

"What? Why?" Dean asked in confusion, and Sam resisted the urge to scoff and roll his eyes, instead settling for merely raising one brow.

"You're kidding, right?" Sam asked, completely dead pan.

"Hey, I don't think I like what you're insinuating, bitch. I'm not a cheater, I just...don't believe in settling down." Dean argued, looking offended.

"Laura Matthews and Jeanie Tillman." Sam replied without missing a beat, and Dean winced.

"That was just a misunderstanding." Dean stated uncomfortably, standing and shrugging into his leather jacket.

"Teresa Giordano and Colleen White." Sam replied easily, sitting back and looking satisfied.

Dean scowled at him again.

"Maureen Carston and Rachel Taylor." Sam rattled the names off easily, and Dean's scowl deepened.

"Are you finished?" Dean asked, pointedly changing the subject, and Sam stood, laughing just a little.

"Don't shoot the messenger." He said, holding up his hands with a tongue in cheek smile, and Dean couldn't help but smile back, it had been so long since he'd heard Sam laugh.

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"Hey." Sam said, as they walked out of the diner. "Let's go the long way, out towards the bridge where Constance jumped."

"Uh..no?" Dean offered, looking at Sam as if he were crazy. "Try again. Try...let's go back to the motel so Sammy can take his medicine and hit his rack." Dean said authoritatively.

"Just for a moment." Sam insisted, and Dean stopped walking, looking at Sam closely.

Sam looked tired, pale and wan, and the shadows had deepened under his eyes. He also looked troubled, though, and Dean put an arm out, reaching without thinking for Sam's shoulder. Sam tensed, but allowed the touch, and Dean repressed another feeling of unease at Sam's un-Sam like behavior.

"What are you thinking, Sam?" Dean asked, curious as to what could have unsettled his brother.

Sam shrugged uncomfortably, as if his own skin were a little to tight.

"I don't know...I just..." Sam trailed off, frowning, and Dean could tell that not only was the kid over-tired, but he was getting frustrated with himself for not being able to voice his thoughts. He should have been in bed hours ago, and now he was to wound up to relax. Dean had seen it a hundred times before when Sam was growing up, just not recently. Sam's recent illness had thrown his body off kilter, though, and now Dean had a handle-with-care little brother on his hands.

"I haven't been out there yet. I've just been stuck at the motel. I feel sort of like I'm trouble shooting this case over the phone or something. I just...want to get a feel for it, I guess." Sam finished with a heavy sigh and Dean studied him thoughtfully.

Sam had "troubleshooted" dozens, maybe hundreds of cases by now for Dean and John as he juggled both school and the life. He'd never complained before, had actually seemed relieved whenever he was relegated to research.

Sam 2.0 seemed much more action oriented, however.

Dean wondered if this was just Sam trying to find his feet after his illness, or if he thought he had something to prove.

Whatever the case, he recognized the stubborn set to Sam's chin. The kid wouldn't get any rest, would stew and fret over this until Dean gave him something to work with so he sighed loudly.

"Well." He said, tossing the keys to Sam. "At least it's a good night for a drive."

Sam's face lit up in a tired grin. "Really?" He said disbelievingly.

"Put so much as a scratch on her and I'll end you." Dean replied in utter seriousness, and Sam's grin grew.

"Jerk." He replied, and Dean's heart warmed as he realized he hadn't heard Sam use that phrase in weeks, since before he'd gone to South Caroline, in fact.

"Bitch." He replied good-naturedly, and they walked out into the parking lot shoulder to shoulder.

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Sam drove down the deserted highway, glad for once Dean had the radio set to merely 'loud' instead of 'ear shattering'.

His headache was growing worse, and Sam was beginning to be afraid it was going to segue into a full blown migraine.

He drove easily, the thrum of the engine a gentle roar in the background of his thoughts. Despite Dean's threats, Dean had made such long ago that Sam was a more than competent driver.

Slowly, Sam relaxed a little, the quiet blur of the dark trees soothing to his rattled nerves, raw from being trapped in a hotel room with an overanxious brother for the last several weeks.

Sam cast his mind back over everything he had read, that niggling feeling of having forgotten something haunting him once again.

It had started back at the restaurant, eventually intensifying unto the point where Sam knew he'd never be able to relax until he'd addressed it.

Going out to the bridge was a hail Mary pass, certainly, but Sam had been out of other ideas.

He could see the bridge coming up in the distance, and he slowed down.

The river could be seen now, moonlight glittering off of the rippling water, and for just a moment, Sam's mind jumped back to Lake Manitoc, and the way the sunlight had trickled down through the water to where he'd been trapped, fighting not to breathe in the dark water.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean's voice broke through Sam's reverie, and he shook himself, looking over at Dean.

"Yeah, yeah. Just...more tired than I thought. Might let you drive back." Sam stammered.

"Sure kiddo." Dean said, doubt threading his voice and Sam grimaced.

Dean had finally relaxed a little, and he wasn't looking forward to a return of the mother hen.

Turning back to the road, he suddenly slammed up the brakes, so hard he was nearly standing on them by the time the car stopped, back end swerving as it fishtailed to a halt.

Sam was staring, startled and breathing heavy.

Constance stood right in front of the car, white dress floating gently in the breeze, beautiful face marred by the dark _wrongness_ of her eyes.

In the blink of an eye she vanished, and Sam's breath left in a rush that morphed into a cough halfway out.

"Jesus, Sammy, what's wrong? Why'd you stop?" Dean cried, reaching over and pounding Sam on the back.

"You didn't...see her?" Sam finally managed, looking wide eyed at his brother. The chills were back, or his fever or both, and gooseflesh chased up and down his arms.

"See who?" Dean demanded, "Constance?" He said, looking around, instinctively reaching for his weapon, though the handgun would be of little use against a ghost.

Sam nodded. "Right there, middle of the damn road, clear as daylight."

Dean's lips thinned. "Well, I guess that's why they keep finding abandoned cars here." He said grimly.

Sam unbuckled his belt, getting out of the car quickly.

"Sam!" Dean called, getting out also, taking a defensive stance as he moved closer to Sam to cover him.

Sam didn't bother to reach for his knife, instead searching with his eyes, with his senses.

Slowly, he pivoted around.

"Oh shit." He heard Dean mutter, and was only a little relieved that apparently Dean saw her too this time.

Constance stood on the railing, skirt swirling faster around her legs now in the breeze of the water. Sam realized with a start that she wasn't looking at him.

She was staring straight at Dean.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Yay, a fun little fight scene! So, kinda annoyed with FFNet. People are reviewing, my counts on several of my stories are going up, I can see it in my legacy stats, however, you can't actually view the new reviews. Really, really annoyed.**

**So, as much as I hate to say it, if you have a question, better pm instead of review until they get their asses straightened out. Normally I'd say post a question in a review, because I love me some reviews, but I'm afraid I won't see it right now, and getting your questions answered are more important than my review count.**

**Anytime now, FFNet. Any time...**

**Hmm, let's see. All the Pretty Monsters updated yesterday, and it's a killer chapter if I do say so myself. How to Fix a Winchester updated Thursday, having fun with that one. Confessions of a Boy King updated last weekend, and I am really happy with that project so far, so if you have a moment, go check it out. I'd love some feed back, and at least the reviews get emailed to me, so I will see them eventually.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**As Always,**

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.**

**Prisoner of War- Chapter Twelve**

"**Ledges, Edges and Other Weaknesses"**

Dean braced himself instinctively when he saw the ghost standing on the railing over looking the river. Nothing about her body language came across as threatening, her skirt and dress floating gently in the breeze wafting off the river.

But her eyes. They were dark and deep, and malice seemed drift from them like smoke from a campfire.

_'Run!'_, his brain screamed, but that was nothing new for a hunter, nor was ignoring it.

They did need to go though. This was the ghost's hunting ground, and they didn't so much as have a can of salt between them.

They were sitting ducks.

"Sam, get in the car." Dean said easily, stretching out a hand slowly to brush his fingertips against the kid's shoulders. Sam's eyes were locked on the ghost, watching her the way a cat would watch a snake.

"Doubt that." Sam replied easily enough, then he shot to one side, and everything went to hell rather quickly after that.

Dean was busy watching Sam, so he didn't realize that the the ghost was watching _him_.

He finally realized that Sam's sudden lunge had been a play to draw the ghost's attention away from Dean.

Unfortunately, it didn't work.

Dean's attention was locked on his brother instead of the spirit, and Constance chose that moment to throw Dean across the bridge, where he skidded to a stop against the low concrete wall supporting the metal beams of the bridge.

Constance started towards him, face impassive as her image flickered in and out like a badly tuned TV set.

"Take me home?" Her voice echoed, shockingly loud and yet indistinct, and Dean wondered if this was what it had been like for Sam and Lucas to have Peter in their heads.

"DEAN!" He heard Sam cry, and he threw up a hand to signal he was OK, motioning for Sam to stay back.

"Go!" He ordered Sammy, shaking his head to try and clear the ringing.

He wasn't sure where he was ordering his brother to go, but he sure as hell didn't want the kid going up against the bitch while he was still walking wounded.

Sam listened about as well as he always did, however.

He started for the trunk, where they kept the salt rounds, apparently. Constance's head swung towards him, and in a flash, she had appeared in front of the trunk of the Impala.

Sam pulled up short so fast he nearly fell, and Dean staggered to his feet. They needed to arm themselves, cause this was one pissed off bitch.

He couldn't quite hear what she was saying to Sammy. The Impala felt like it was ten miles away instead of ten feet, and he shook his head again. She cocked her head a Sam, like a child studying a bug under a microscope, and Dean felt his lips peel back in a snarl.

She needed to get the hell away from his kid.

She hissed suddenly, eyes widening, large black pools of hate distorting her pretty features. She flung her hand outward, and Dean felt the pulse of power as it flew from her, felt the hair on his head blow backward, felt the sensation as it caressed his cheeks.

Sam flew backward, the keys falling from his hand, and Dean felt a sinking sense of deja-vu as he saw his brother fly up over the railing and over the edge of the bridge, into the dark of the night.

"SAM!"

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Sam knew the likelihood of Constance allowing him to reach the trunk of the Impala, and therefore the shotgun, fell somewhere between slim and never-going-to-happen, but he had to try nonetheless.

As he had expected, she intercepted him, but at least that drew her attention away from Dean for a moment.

Sam couldn't explain it, but he could almost sense the way she had zeroed in on his brother, like a moth to a flame, and he spared a thought to the irony of their earlier conversation at the diner.

"Take me home?" She queried, and Sam breathed out a silent sigh of relief when he realized he was hearing the words with his ears and not his mind.

"I'm not your type." He muttered, frozen in place as he tried to determine a way around the spirit.

"I can never go home." The ghost's voice had a mournful edge, and Sam stilled for a moment, brain latching onto her words, sensing their importance, feeling them click into place like puzzle pieces, tying into his earlier sense of _missing something_, and Sam was close, so close he could almost taste it.

He looked at her, deciding to hazard a guess. "You're scared to go home?" He breathed the words quietly, but not quietly enough, because in response, she threw him off the bridge.

Or at least she tried to.

Sam's spidey-sense screamed at him a split second before the ghost attacked.

He felt the rush of power, the raw energy and hate screaming from the spirit, a physical manifestation of her pain and rage and despair.

It lifted him off his feet easily, and Sam felt disoriented for a moment as he flew outward. He clipped his shoulder on the concrete bulwark, and his left arm went numb almost right away. Fortunately, the cable he latched onto was on his right side, and he immediately moved to secure his position by hooking his legs over it also.

He was literally hanging like a damn koala over the river, and already his arm and legs were shaking with exertion, because he had pushed himself too far, too fast, about two hours back and he needed to get out of this ASAP.

He could hear the sound of Dean screaming his name, but he was breathless with the effort of maintaining his hold, and had nothing to spare to reply.

He heard the sound of gun shots, and he strained to move faster. Whatever gun Dean was using would have little effect, and Dean knew it, which meant he was running out of ideas.

Sam heard the sound of the Impala starting, and confusion warred with panic, because he knew there was no way in hell Dean would drive off without him.

So who was driving the Impala?

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"SAM!" Dean screamed again, voice ragged with fear and rage as he surged forward, desperate to see if his brother had gone into the river or landed on the bank.

Dean had been thrown against the upriver side of the bridge, while Sam had been thrown off the downriver side, so Sam could already be floating downstream.

Unless he was knocked unconscious.

Dean had watched Sam hit the concrete wall, feet flying up as he somersaulted ass over head. Dean was hoping it was just his shoulder he struck, but an impact like that in that location didn't leave much wriggle room.

An unconscious person would simply sink like a stone in the muddy waters below.

Constance was before him again in the blink of an eye, and Dean jerked back reflexively, swearing.

Her eyes burned into his, and Dean held up his gun on instinct, wishing there was a way to use salt rounds with a hand gun.

"Take me home." She commanded, and Dean narrowed his eyes at her.

"Not happening sister." He said, firing off three rounds in quick succession.

She vanished in a angry swirl of smoke, and he looked around quickly before starting back to the ledge.

He stopped, turning in angry disbelief when he heard the Impala's engine start.

**Oh. **

**Hell. **

_**No.**_

First the bitch throws his kid off a bridge, and now she's messing with his car?

"I will salt and burn the memory of your _memory_ if that's what it takes..." Dean threatened lowly.

The lights came on, directly into Dean's eyes, and he threw up his arms in reaction. He barely managed to throw himself to the side as Baby came right at him, and he rolled back toward the upriver side of the bridge.

"Watch the damn paint you psychopath!" He hollered.

Damn women drivers.

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Sam peered incredulously over the railing as his brother proceeded to play chicken with his own car.

That was...unexpected.

Sam was perched precariously on a thin ledge, and his left arm was still mostly useless. He flexed his hand as best he could, trying to encourage sensation to come back, but so far, it was a no-go.

Perhaps that was for the best, since Sam guessed when he could feel it it would hurt like hell.

Gritting his teeth, he shoved himself less than gracefully over the wall, wincing as the impact jarred his suddenly no longer numb shoulder, as oh, yes, that hurt _a lot._

Neither Dean nor the Impala (ghost?) seemed to have noticed him yet, and Sam spied Dean's gun lying only a few feet away.

He rolled forward, grabbing up the gun in a motion that was smooth despite the screaming pain now radiating up his neck.

He took s shooting stance, but paused, unsure of where to aim. Shooting the car would do nothing but piss off the ghost and his brother.

Huffing out an anxious breath, he shoved the gun in the waistband of his pants, and strode forward, yelling.

"Hey! Constance! What the hell'd you do to your kids, anyway?"

Maybe if the ghost focused on him, Dean could get into the trunk and get the salt rounds.

She appeared before him with a crack of sound, like thunder, hair streaming back angrily, eyes glowing with hate.

"What are you?" She hissed, throwing a hand out again, though this time, at least, the wall stopped Sam's descent.

At least he got her attention.

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Dean's eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw Sammy, striding into the beams of the Impala's headlights like he owned the damn place, and Jesus H Christ, was the kid trying to piss the ghost off more?

Whatever his plan, he certainly captured her attention. She threw him against the wall a second time, and Dean could only imagine the bruises Sammy was going to end up with. He was going to laugh in triumph when he torched this one.

Once he found something to torch, that is.

Not able to spare a glance at his brother, he sprinted towards the Impala's trunk, grabbing the keys off the ground where Sam had dropped them and sliding them into the lock with hands steady from having to do this in a rush one time too many.

He yanked out the shotgun, already loaded with salt. He cocked it and took careful aim.

"Sam! Down!" He yelled, and Sam dropped like he had just discovered gravity.

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"What...are you?" The spirit questioned again, more demanding this time, and Sam was grateful that Dean was to far away to hear her voice.

"I'm not a cheater, at least." He mouthed, trying to keep her attention on him and away from Dean as he saw Dean move for the car.

"Not like your husband. Who was she? An old flame, high school sweetheart? Or a waitress?"

She keened in anger and he couldn't help but roll his eyes.

It was always the damned waitress.

"Sam! Down!" He heard Dean called, and years of practice, instinct, and partnership made Sam's move as fluid as any dance move.

He heard the clamor of the shot gun firing as it echoed over the water, felt the salt as it rained down, landing in his hair and on his back.

Within seconds, Dean was hauling him up by his jacket, brushing him off, checking for injuries.

"Shit, Sammy, I thought you went over!" Sam pretended not to notice that by now, both of them were shaking.

He winced when Dean's hands went unerringly for his wounded shoulder, his brother somehow already sensing the source of the worst of the pain.

"Rules, Sammy! We have rules. Big brother-Bait! Little Brother-Rescues the victim! Not the other way around." Dean scolded, fear making his voice harsh.

Sam sucked in a pained breath. "You were the victim, dude. She was on you like white on rice. We gotta move, Dean. She may have never been hit with salt before, but it won't keep her down for long. Let's get the hell outta here."

"You're telling me." Dean muttered, hauling Sam behind him to the impala. He didn't even let Sam go around to the passenger seat, instead pushing him in the driver's side, forcing Sam to scoot over as Dean followed on his heels.

"She okay?" Sam asked, watching his brothers face to take his mind off his throbbing shoulder.

"Seems okay." Dean muttered as he started her, turning her neatly and speeding off. "Better than you anyway. Give me a run down." He ordered, their code for "tell me what hurts, in order from need-a-hospital to need-an-aspirin".

Sam shook his head. "I'm good." He stated, though he pretty much felt like he'd just been thrown off Everest and left bleeding in the snow for ten days.

"Sam! Tell the truth so we can fix it, or dammit, we going to the ER!" Dean yelled, thoroughly tired of trying to keep Sam okay without at least a little help from Sam himself.

Sam made a face, but reluctantly replied, knowing Dean was right, and hiding injuries was unprofessional.

"Clipped my shoulder good on the wall. It works, so not broken, not dislocated. Just seriously, seriously pissed off. Knee isn't feeling great, but it got a workout, so that makes sense. Head hurts, no blurred vision, no ringing, so no concussion." He said grudgingly.

"And your fever's back." Dean stated authoritatively. Sam raised a brow.

"And you have a concussion. And a hell of a bruise on your forehead." He replied, and this time Dean scowled.

"I want that bitch in a box." He muttered, hitting his hand against the steering wheel, looking over at Sam. "Christ, Sammy, I really though you went into the water again."

Sam sighed. Dean was having a harder time with all this than Sam was some days.

But then again, Dean didn't know Sam was a lost cause.

"Let's go back to the hotel. Ice. Lot's of ice. And painkillers." Sam said tiredly.

"And antibiotics and bed." Dean added, a 'don't even argue' tone once again in his voice, and Sam mourned the few moments back at the diner when they had been brothers, instead of hero and lost cause.

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Dean got them back to the motel in record time. His head was pounding in time to his heartbeat, and Sam was shaking, white and sweaty with pain or fever or both.

"Inside. I'll get the gear." He ordered tersely.

Sam's eye flew up to his. "I can help." He offered, and Dean choked down a laugh.

"INSIDE." Dean insisted, as calmly as he could manage. Sam nodded once, jerkily, lips pressed together in a thin line, and Dean instantly berated himself for taking that tone with his sick, injured brother who had thrown himself not once but twice at a ghost to try to cover Dean tonight.

"I need a moment here, Sam." Dean offered weakly, and darned if Sam didn't look just a little sorry for Dean.

Broken, bruised and feverish, and worried about his big brother.

Sam went inside then, and Dean waited while he turned on the lights and stuck a hand out the door, signaling the room was clear.

Then he lay his head down on the steering wheel. The vicious, pounding in his head was bad enough, the but memory of Sam flying up over the ledge of the bridge insisted on replaying over and over in his head like a broken record.

Dean hadn't been lying, when he'd told Sam he thought he'd gone over. He'd had no choice but to keep moving, keep fighting, but the entire time he'd been fighting the instinct to jump off the ledge right after Sammy.

The events of the lake and Sammy's near death weren't far enough away, yet, would never be far enough away, in Dean's opinion.

For one moment, out there on the bridge, he'd been so sure it was happening all over again, and he'd felt this crushing sense of failure and fear, because, once again, _he hadn't kept Sam safe_.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Okay, this chapter is really dark and kinda disturbing, so fair warning. Sorry it's a day late, but review and tell me you forgive me?**

**As Always, **

_**EverReader**_

**Prisoner of War- Chapter Thirteen**

"**Facing Your Fears"**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

Dean looked around the motel room with tired amazement.

"Dude, did you get any sleep at all while I was at the library?" He muttered incredulously.

Sam shrugged tiredly, looking around at all the files he had pinned up on the walls.

"I couldn't sleep." He offered, finally, and Dean grimaced, rubbing his aching head. Though Sam refused to talk about it, Dean knew Sam was having nightmares.

Dean set the gear down carefully, before going over to the first aid kit, rummaging around for some pain killers. Tossing back two, he then threw the bottle to Sam, along with Sam's bottle of antibiotics. He noticed Sam was careful not to jostle his left shoulder.

"Let's get your shirt off." Dean said, reaching for Sam to help him wrangle his shirt over his head.

"Dude." Sam said, moving out of arm's reach.

Dean scowled. "Whatever, Sam, just get it off already." He scolded, tired of Sam's antics.

Sam's movements were so slow it made Dean clench his teeth in frustration, so to distract himself from his stubborn little brother, he studied the work Sam had done while Dean was at the library. Sam had done an amazing job, Dean admitted to himself, feeling a little mortified that he hadn't thought of it himself. He'd been preoccupied with Sam's illness, though he wasn't sure why John hadn't done it either, since that was where Sam had learned the technique.

Looking around the room, it was much easier to see the pattern that Sam had picked up on, that led him to the theory about it being a woman in white.

Turning back to his brother, he sucked in a breath, whistling quietly. Sam's back and shoulders were a collage of myriad bruises, and if they were that bad already, then it was going to get really ugly by morning.

Ignoring the pounding in his own head, he pushed Sam down on his bed. "Stay." He ordered, voice brooking no argument, and he grabbed up the room's small ice bucket.

He was really sick of his kid getting hurt.

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Sam leaned back tiredly against the hard plastic chairs of the laundromat. The air in the store was muggy, smelling of a dozen different flavors of detergent and fabric softener. He shifted his position, biting his lip when his shoulder screamed in protest. He glanced over at Dean, who thankfully hadn't noticed. Sam had barely managed to keep Dean from forcing Sam into a sling as it was.

John had left out that morning, saying something about an emergency two states over, and that Bobby would meet him out there and be his back up.

He hadn't said a word about either boys injuries, just listening as they relayed the events. Deeming them to now have enough information to close the case, he had left without a second thought.

Sam could tell the constant chasing after Dad was starting to wear on Dean, and Dean was compensating by keeping Sam closer than normal.

The load in the dryer came to a finish and Sam stood up to go over to the machine, only to be roughly-but-not-too-roughly shoved out of the way by his brother and Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean made a face as he pulled the clothes out. "Some of the jeans are still wet." He complained, and Sam stuck his good hand into his pants pocket. Fishing out the last of his change, he held it out to Dean.

"Here, put them in for another fifteen minutes. We don't want to pack them wet. I'll take the first bag out to the Impala."

Dean raised a brow. "Try again, bro. You baby sit the laundry, I'll take the bag out. Your shoulder's wrecked, man. Let it heal before it falls off or something."

"Just...okay. Whatever" Sam said, forcing down his irritation at being treated like a child. He knew Dean was worried, and hell yeah, his shoulder hurt, but how was he ever supposed to prove his worth if Dean didn't let him?

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Dean lugged the duffel out to the impala and tossed it into the trunk. Slamming the lid, he started back across the street to the laundromat. He slowed as he saw that a county Sheriff had pulled up outside. The two officers were looking up and down the street, and Dean had a bad feeling about that.

He slowed even more, trying to look casual as he pivoted and walked back up the sidewalk. Pulling out his phone, he dialed Sam's number, thankful he'd insisted the kid keep it on him at all times, even when he was already with Dean.

"Dean?" Sam's surprised voice sounded in Dean's ear, but Sam was silent after that, knowing that if his brother needed to call him from the parking lot then something was up.

"5-0" Dean said quickly, glancing back casually to see that the officers had noticed him, and were quickly zeroing in on him. "Get out, wait for them to leave and take the car. Go meet up with Dad."

"What about you?" Sam replied, sounding alert but calm. "And you have the keys."

"Not anymore." Dean replied as he discreetly dropped his car keys into the planter he was standing next to. "Blue planter. Yellow flowers."

"What about you?" Sam repeated, as a heavy hand clamped down on Dean's shoulder.

"Little late for that, kiddo." Dean snapped the phone shut before the officer could take it from him, thankful that Sam had never been with Dean or John on any of the interrogations.

The police had no reason to even look for him, and all his gear was in the trunk, which was locked.

"We're gonna need you to come with us, Sir." The way the officer said 'sir' had Dean fairly certain he didn't mean it.

Wasn't this gonna be fun?

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Sam watched surreptitiously out the window of the neighboring internet cafe as the officers arrested his brother. He winced in sympathy as they manhandled him into their squad car. He needed to retrieve the keys, but he couldn't until the crowd had dispersed, so he sat down at one of the computers and started digging.

Dean might have wanted Sam to run to John, but since Sam couldn't think of a single thing in the universe that would ever make that happen, he would have to take care of this himself.

Constance had to be tied to something or someone or _somewhere_. Something was anchoring her, but what?

She had to have some kind of weakness. Sam started researching every case of a woman in white haunting that he could find, and then he started making calls.

He called John first to report.

"Can you handle this on your own?" John's voice was stern and tinged with doubt.

"I'll call for back up if I can't. Dean won't be there long. No way a county lock up is gonna be able to hold him." Sam replied, heart hammering.

"Get it taken care of, Sam." John's voice was dismissive, and he hung up without another word.

Next he talked to Bobby, listening as Bobby recounted his experience with the woman in white. Bobby had had a body to burn, however, so it wasn't really the same.

By this time, two hours had passed and Sam's cell phone was almost dead, so he ambled out and retrieved the Impala keys when no one was looking. It was getting late, the sun setting in the distance, and Sam deciding he'd better move the Impala before the police had it towed.

He got in the car as discreetly as he could, and pulled out smoothly into the light evening traffic. Pulling over on a secluded gravel road, he parked, rolling down the windows to catch the breeze. He rubbed his aching head, determined to find a solution.

They had no body to burn. But maybe their was something, a lock of hair, maybe, at Constance's old house. It was unusual for a ghost's hunting ground to be so far from it's anchor, but Constance appeared to be an unusually strong ghost.

He'd have to go out to the old farmhouse. He'd been avoiding doing it alone, it was crazy dangerous without back up and his shoulder made him half-useless already, but he couldn't see any way around it.

But first he needed to make one last call before his cell gave out.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?" The bored sounding voice at the other end of the line said.

"Someone's shooting!" Sam said, infusing his voice with the right amount of panic. "Please send the police!"

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Dean barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes at the pedantic Sheriff.

"You caught me, Sheriff. I did it. Even the ones twenty-five years ago. Before I was born." Dean dead panned.

"We know you have an accomplice. We saw all those crazy photos pinned up in your hotel room." The Sheriff replied.

"We're writers. That's research." Dean said for what seemed like the fifteenth time. "Everything up there is information anyone could get their hands on."

"Hector Alvarez's social security number sure wasn't common knowledge, but you managed to get a hold of that and his credit card." The Sheriff retorted, and Dean winced a little.

That might be a little harder to explain.

"Sheriff!" A wide eyed secretary ran into the room, flustered curls flying around her face. "Someone just called in shots fired down on Tanner's Bridge Road."

The Sheriff cursed and Dean had to bite down a grin. The Winchesters were probably more excitement than the small town of Jericho saw in most decades.

He watched in amusement as the Sheriff and his two deputies rushed about the room, gearing up. Discreetly he began unfolding the paper clip from the desk.

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Sam walked carefully through the old abandoned farm house. Constance's husband had appeared to leave the majority of the family's possessions behind when he moved out. There were still some old pictures on the walls, hanging over faded, peeling wall paper, and dust and debris choked the floor.

Carefully, testing each step for soundness, he began heading slowly upstairs. The place was creepy, even for a Winchester, and Sam felt the gun tucked away at the small of his back for reassurance.

It was only a hand gun, and useless against a ghost, as last night had proved, but it made him feel better. John had presented it to Sam before he left that morning, though Sam noted that he was careful to do it while Dean was out of the room. Filing that little fact away for later, Sam had taken the piece and tucked it under his shirt.

Now, as he crested the top of the staircase, he felt a cold draft dance across his skin, the hairs on his arms all standing at attention.

He paused as he heard what sounded like children giggling, and he fought down the urge to get the hell out of there, as memories of Peter pulled at him.

He freaking hated creepy ghost children.

Pushing forward, he slowly opened the door at the end of the hall.

It was a nursery, or had been one years ago, though instead of cribs the room had two small beds. There was still a teddy bear on the ground, dirty and dusty and missing an eye. A spider crawled lazily across it and Sam shuddered again.

The giggling echoed around him again, and the room was cold enough that any moment now, Sam would be seeing his breath.

He jumped when his phone rang, the shrill tone echoing in the murky stillness. Glancing down, he could see the battery warning sign flashing, but he opened it anyway.

"Fake 9-1-1 call Sammy? Impressive, even for you!" Dean's voice was jubilant, still high on his escape from the police and Sam smiled slightly.

"You with Dad?" Dean asked, suddenly all business, and Sam's smile slid away as the giggling started behind him again.

"Not...exactly." Sam said, pivoting slowly to face the two small, shadowy silhouettes in the room's doorway.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice had risen three octaves, and Sam would have winced, except the two shadows had started moving forward, and that was a little more important.

"I might be out at the old farmhouse." Sam forced his voice to remain casual, but Dean heard the alarm in it all the same.

"Get out, Sam, get the hell out of there right now!" Sam heard Dean, heard the words, but there was a strange rushing in his ears, and he suddenly felt light headed.

The phone dropped from his numb fingers, and the rest of his body followed as the vision hit him fast.

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"Sam! Sammy!" Dean cursed fluently as the line went dead, and set about finding a car to steal, muttering the entire time about how he was going to low-jack his kid brother.

He got the old Buick going quick enough, and peeled out towards the highway, facing into the blinding sun as it set.

He needed to get to Sam and get him out of whatever the hell he had gotten himself into. He didn't waste anytime calling John, if Sam hadn't called him already, then he was too far to help the boys now.

He drove quickly, taking the shortest route without even thinking about it, which proved to be a miscalculation, when suddenly Constance appeared in the middle of the highway, and Dean slammed on the brakes much the way Sam had last night.

Dean cursed again as he realized he had driven right into her trap, that deadly stretch of highway 17.

"Take me home." The words were close, so close, and suddenly Constance wasn't standing in front of the car, she was sitting inside, with Dean, and his breath was suddenly coming out in clouds.

"No way in hell." Dean cried vehemently, reaching for the door handle, but the locks clicked all on their own, and suddenly the car was accelerating, driving itself forward, and Dean spared a moment to be thankful that at least his hitchhiker had the same destination he did.

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_Late evening sunlight streamed into the cheerful yellow bedroom, and the two small children were huddled over a board game on the floor._

_Sam could hear them, could smell dinner cooking from downstairs, could hear the sound of water running._

"_Mommy!" The older boy looked over, jumping up and running over to the woman who had appeared in the doorway. Sam was struck by how pretty Constance had been in life, even now, as she stood with tear tracks drying on her cheeks and a blank expression in her eyes._

"_Are you okay, Mommy?" The little girl asked worriedly, and Sam railed against the vision, desperate to not be forced to watch what happened next._

_His struggles were to no avail, and the scene played on, perhaps in this house it was always playing, on a loop, over and over, and Sam just happened to be today's lucky viewer._

"_Bath time." The woman replied disjointedly, and the boy frowned. _

"_We haven't ate yet." He said._

"_Your father will be home soon, and we need to get ready." She replied._

_The boy frowned again, but the little girl was already taking her mother's hand trustingly, and the boy followed them down the hall._

_Sam held back as far as he could, but the memories seemed to pull him forward, and he watched in horror as Constance forced first her kicking and fighting son, then her hysterical daughter under the water, until their hands stopped flailing, their legs stopped kicking._

_Sam was certain he was going to be sick as memories of trying to prevent that exact same thing from happening to Andrea flooded his mind._

_Afterwards, the dazed woman sat back on her heels, an almost entirely blank look in her eyes that chilled Sam's soul. It was almost worse, however, when the realization came back into them, her breath hitching on a screaming sob, hands pulling at her hair, wet to her shoulders as she plunged her arms into the tub to pull out her lifeless children. He watched as she hysterically tried to revive them, as she dialed 9-1-1._

_Then that same preternatural calm seemed to descend on her again, and she dropped the phone, leaving it hanging as she simply walked away, grabbing her keys from the counter._

Sam came out of the vision with a start, as the sound of the engine in Constance's car bled into reality, and he realized he was laying on the dirty floor. The ghost children were gone, but the sound of the car engine remained, and Sam was suddenly worried he knew exactly who was in that car.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Okay guys, sorry for another late update. Bestie moving plus lap top issues equals late chapters. My sincerest apologies. Best guess for the next update for this story will be Sunday.**

**Again, tons of apologies.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not mine not mine not mine, lalalalalala**

**Prisoner of War – Chapter 14**

"**Tragedy On Replay"**

**From the personal journal of John Henry Winchester**

"_**Sam hides the darkness so well, I don't even see it sometimes. I catch myself looking at him, starting to smile, and then I remember the truth all over again.**_

_**Inside my son, there is a darkness, a poison running through his veins. I have given up hope of defeating it, but it has laid mostly dormant for years. I have not completely given up on the idea of beating down, delaying what I fear to be inevitable. Again and again I find myself pondering sending Dean away. If Sam goes wrong, he'd be a danger to Dean, but more than that, their closeness might be Dean's undoing. Dean might not survive watching his brother give in to the evil.**_

_**What if Sam's evil taints his brother?**_

_**I am even more glad now that neither of the two older boys know of the existence of their youngest brother.**_

_**Perhaps Adam still has a chance for happiness."**_

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Sam brushed the dust and dirt off his hands and the side of his face from where he'd been laying on the dirty floor.

Ignoring his (newly, _again_) screaming shoulder, and the pounding ache in his head, he scrambled over to the window. Pushing aside the ratty, moth-eaten curtains, he peered out into the gloom.

An old, tan Buick was idling in front of the farmhouse. He didn't recognize the vehicle, but the shadowy silhouette in the drivers seat was familiar enough for Sam to recognize anywhere.

Dean.

A chill worked down his spine when he realized there was another silhouette beside the first.

That sure as hell didn't look like Dad.

Turning, he lunged for the door, every instinct in his body screaming that Dean needed help _right the hell now. _

A crunch as Sam enter the hall way had him looking down in surprise.

One of the old pictures had fallen to the ground, perhaps knocked down by the Impact of Sam's body hitting the floor a few moments earlier. Moving entirely on that same driving instinct that seemed to guide all his other actions these days, he paused, heart hammering in his chest. He knelt, picking up the object, studying it, mind working lightning quick as it jumped, making connections and shifting through evidence, anecdotes and his own, insistent instincts.

A part of his brain was still screaming, saying _get-to-Dean-get-to-Dean_, but the other part of his mind, the part that had spent the last forty eight hours being haunted by the nagging sense of _missing_ _something_ was screaming even louder.

_Here-here-here-here._

It was a picture, frame dented and glass cracked, fissures spider-webbing across the faces of the once happy family. Constance sat, smiling between her two children, the boy to one side, and the little girl leaning against her other.

A giggle echoed down the hall, and Sam's head snapped up, eyes wide with realization.

"She's scared to come home." Sam whispered to himself, dropping the picture to the ground and bounding back downstairs.

Now he knew her weakness.

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Dean stared at the decrepit farmhouse in front of him. The shutters were falling off, and he could see where Sam had kicked the door in, not bothering to replace it, as the house was at the end of it's own private road.

He searched the door ways and windows for signs of his brother, doing his best to ignore the frigid temperature in the car. Constance had seemed to disappear once the vehicle had started itself, but Dean sure as hell hadn't been the one doing the driving on this little field trip.

As discreetly as he could, he tried the door again.

Still locked.

He jumped as Constance appeared again, this time leaning far to close to Dean for his personal comfort.

"I can never go home." She whispered breathily, still flickering in and out of view slightly, the visual discrepancy making Dean's eyes hurt.

He was getting a little sick of her one liners anyway.

"You know, I've never actually cheated, per se." He began conversational, sliding back against the door.

"I'm not exactly the going steady type, so by default, I've never actually cheated, because I've never been exclusive with someone."

She cocked her head to one side. "Everyone betrays what they love the most." She leaned in even further, hallowed eyes locked on Dean's, her voice sounding like it was coming across an old radio.

"You will too."

She reached out suddenly, placing her hand on Dean's chest, directly above his heart. Dean screamed as his back arched upward, muscles straining as what felt like a thousand watts of electricity coursed along his screaming nerves.

He tried pushing her off, but though she appeared to have little trouble touching him, his hands seemed to pass right through her. His body slid down the seat, his head banging against the door handle.

"Down!" He heard the word dimly, from what seemed like impossibly far away, and one part of his confused mind questioned the directive, because wasn't he already lying down?

It made a little more sense a moment later, when glass was suddenly raining down on his face, and he covered his eyes instinctively.

"Sam?" He cried in confused relief. "Where the hell did you get a gun?"

"Move!" Sam yelled, ignoring Dean's question, as he unceremoniously shoved his older brother to the passenger side of the vehicle.

Dean could feel the gritty texture of the safety glass underneath his legs as he scooted over. Sam climbed in, a crazy, triumphant smile on his face, and Dean grinned back automatically. The grin faded when Sam put the car into drive instead of reverse, as Dean had expected.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, mild alarm lacing his voice. "Wrong way, kiddo."

Sam turned to look at Dean, a dare-devil glint in his eyes that Dean hadn't seen since Sam had taught himself to ride a bike without training wheels when he was five.

That was the second time he'd broken his arm.

"We're not going that way!" Sam called over the sound of the engine. "We're taking her home!"

He yelled out, whooping with joy or excitement or insanity, Dean wasn't sure at that moment.

Dean felt the electric shift in the air as Constance materialized in the back seat just as Sam slammed his foot on the accelerator, ramming the car into the front wall of her old home.

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Sam watched in fear, his heart jumping up his throat as the spirit attacked his brother. He couldn't quite make out what she was doing, but whatever it was, it looked like it hurt like hell.

He drew his weapon, but just like the night before, he was unsure of where to shoot. He could see the ghost, but Dean was blocking his shot.

Dean slid down ( or maybe collapsed ) at that moment, and Sam chanced it, yelling a warning to his brother as he fired.

Constance disappeared with an angry swirl, and Sam sprinted over to the car, fighting his reluctant lungs for breath.

How to get her inside the house? He could only think of one way, and he didn't think his brother was going to like it.

Dean's face supported Sam's supposition as Sam slammed on the gas, but Sam couldn't help but laugh again.

Christ, he'd been wanting to knock down a building for weeks now.

Might as well enjoy it.

The impact was jarring, knocking Sam's teeth together, but at least Dean had stolen an older model Buick without airbags. The car had crash-landed in the living room of the old farmhouse, and dust and debris rained down on the car.

Unfortunately, the dust finally got to his overtaxed lungs, and he erupted into a harsh coughing fit.

"Sammy? SAM? You good?" He heard Dean asking, felt Dean clapping his hand against Sam's back as Sam hunched against the steering wheel.

"Yeah!" Sam finally managed to wheeze, glad that Constance hadn't yet reappeared.

"Help me out?" Sam mumbled, but Dean was already out of the passenger door, hurrying around the rear of the car.

Sam's door was wedged shut so Dean had to help him climb out the shattered side window as Sam battled another coughing fit, more safety glass raining from his clothes as he finally stood.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Dean yelled as he patted Sam down, checking for yet more injuries. The Buick was totaled, and Sam was infinitely grateful that he hadn't had to use the Impala for this little expedition.

"We gotta get out of here!" Dean finished, as he started tugging Sam towards the newly renovated wall.

"Wait, not yet." Sam argued, throwing up his hand up to tangle in Dean's shirt, bringing his brother to a momentary halt.

"Wait for it." Sam whispered.

"Wait for what?" Dean said incredulously, looking around quickly, his own gun in his hand now.

The piano suddenly shot across the room. The boys ducked as debris rained down.

Constance materialized then, moving forward in that jerky half-motion particular to very strong ghosts, seeming one moment to glide, the next moment to _leap_ forward in space.

She was carrying the same photo Sam had been holding earlier.

"What are we waiting for, Sammy?" Dean was gripping Sam by his good shoulder, and despite the inch he had on his older brother, his recent weight loss had Sam struggling to keep them in one place.

"Just trust me, Dean. I think I found her weakness." Sam mumbled, trying to move his lips as little as possible.

"Did you hit your head again?" Dean muttered back, shoving Sam partially behind him as she advanced angrily.

Sam looked up them, as a drop of water, then another dripped onto his forehead from the ceiling.

"X marks the spot." Sam muttered, thankful that Dean understood his meaning, even if he didn't understand the plan.

Sam took one careful step backward, then another, pulling Dean with him, gradually leading the ghost towards the slowly growing puddle of water saturating the old carpeting.

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean half-sang, half-stage whispered, as the boys backed away from the growing puddle.

Constance herself seemed entirely oblivious. She threw the portrait down angrily, the chime of breaking glass echoing in the dead silence of the house.

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Sam and Dean were now backed up against the living room wall, their elongated shadows thrown by the lights of the Buick.

"We destroy what we love." Constance hissed angrily.

"That's not my idea of love, lady." Dean sneered back.

"Dean!" Sam hissed, "Freeze!" Sam breathed out the last word almost silently, his breath fanning across the back of Dean's neck, and Dean obeyed, eyes searching for whatever Sam had seen.

Looking up at the staircase towering behind Constance, he suddenly saw what Sam had noticed, and his hand clenched unconsciously tighter in his brother's shirt.

Man, he hated creepy ghost children.

Dean watched as the two small shadows detached themselves from the wall, forming the shapes of two heart-breakingly tiny human beings.

Or, they had been once, at least.

Now, as their outlines solidified, Dean realized what had attacked Sam while he was on the phone with Dean, and began to understand Sam's plan.

Giggling echoed down the staircase, and Constance froze.

Dean could almost have been sorry for her in that moment, as an indescribable pain drifted across her features.

She pivoted, unknowingly coming to stand directly in the puddle of water in the middle of the room.

She glanced upward as more water showered down, coming faster now, and she began to struggle as the children moved down the stairs, their laughter twining around the room's occupants like serpents.

Constance appeared stuck, as if she had stepped into quicksand, instead of merely water, and the ghost children were so close now Dean could see the logo on the boy's shirt, could see the ragged, one eyed teddy bear the little girl dragged behind her.

"You've come home, Mommy." Twin voices echoed eerily, and the room was so cold frost was climbing up the remaining window panes.

Behind him, he could feel as Sam started to shake with cold, but they were trapped until whatever the hell was happening played itself out.

On the now-frosted window pane closest to them, Dean watched as words suddenly appeared in the frost, as if drawn by tiny fingers on a winter day.

_Come-Home-Mommy-Come-Home-Mommy._

Constance screamed then, in fear or sorrow or some combination of both, as the dripping wet children wrapped their arms around her.

The three of them seemed to pulse, and the two children disappeared, leaving the ghost of their moving standing wild eyed in the center of the room. Her hair flew about her, like Medusa's snakes, and she turned her eyes back to the brothers then, making as if to move towards then.

Dean braced himself instinctively for the attack that never came. Constance remained stuck, and she keened in fury. She thrust her arm out, and the boys flew the last remaining inches into the wall behind them with a thud.

More plaster dust rained down, but water was no longer just trickling from the ceiling, it was pouring, and Dean got a chilling glimpse of just what exactly Sam and Lucas had encountered during Peter's attack at Lake Manitoc.

Suddenly, two pairs of small, right arms thrust up from the dark puddle at Constance's feet, and she screamed her fury one last time as she was dragged down into the water, as if sinking into a black hole.

And then there was silence.

"She was afraid to come home." Sam said quietly, standing beside Dean now, and Dean stared at him, wide eyed.

"How the hell could that have possibly counted as a plan, Sammy?" He demanded, as they crawled around the stolen Buick and limped towards the Impala, which Sam had thankfully parked a ways back, out of harms way.

"We needed to find her weakness. Her kids were the best I could come up with." Sam said simply, sighing as if he hadn't slept in a year, and crap, his kid looked freaking awful, dusty and dirty and wet, with plaster dust in his hair and dark bags under his eyes.

Lines of pain marched across his forehead and Dean could only imagine how bad crashing the call into the farmhouse must have hurt his shoulder.

"Jesus, Sammy. That was fucking nuts." Dean shook his head, nearly rendered mute by the insanity of his brother's actions. Sam had had no way of knowing that any of that would work, and whats more-

"I told you to call Dad!" Dean whipped around then, angrily, pushing down his unease for the comfort of aggression.

Sam reared back, startled and off-kilter, and Dean had to fight down the urge to bundle his brother into the car and tuck him under a blanket.

"Umm." Sam stammered, looking uncomfortable.

"Well?" Dean demanded, fists clenched.

"I did." Sam finally said, shoving his hands into his jeans, looking anywhere but at Dean.

"You what?" Dean asked incredulously.

"I did...call Dad." Sam repeated uncomfortably. "We both knew the cops wouldn't be able to hold you for long. Dad didn't want to leave Bobby without back up. He told me to handle it. So...I did."

"Dad knew I was in jail?" Dean asked, confusion warring with pride. Of course, Dad was right, the county lockup had been a joke to someone trained by John Winchester. But still-

"Dad knew you were on your own?" Dean shook his head, unable to reconcile the idea of John "Dean-watch-out-for-Sammy" Winchester would ever leave his youngest hanging without any back up.

"I'm sixteen. You guys can't protect me forever." Sam said quietly, and there was a look on his face that had everyone of Dean's big brother instincts screaming bloody murder.

"We're hunters, Dean. Shit happens, it happens all the time. That's why we do what we do, right? Cause bad things happen to good people, and we're what happens to the bad things."

He said it so matter of factually, and Dean was torn, because, yes, of course Sam was right. That was what a hunter did. Whatever it took to kill the nightmare of the week. The monsters went bump in the night, and hunters bumped back.

Dean wasn't afraid of dying, not particularly, but the way Sam pronounced those words left them echoing in Dean's brain.

They sounded an awful lot like an eulogy.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Okay kiddos, here's the deal. This story has always had a very specific time line and plot line, and by the original count it's a little ways past the half-way mark now. That being said, the current plan is two work through two more remixed canon cases, and then go on one final AU case that will wrap up the story arc. **

**That being said, I have had had some readers ask me if I would be taking Sam 2.0 further. The answer is, though I hadn't planned on it, if you guys wanted me to make this a longer story, I certainly could.**

**I'm trying to keep angels and demons and what-not out of it, Sam's powers are obviously manifesting early, but really, that's as far as this story will be touching on the apocalypse storyline, because that's what the TV series did. **

**There are tons of other fun, non-angel/demon episodes I could use to show off new, Sam 2.0 and anxious/worried/over-protective big brother Dean. (Honestly, between the hellatus and the season ten preview, I'm sort of craving protective big brother Dean). However, I do not want to drag out a story longer than the readers are interested in reading it.**

**So what I need from you, dear readers, is some feed back. Leave me a review, shoot me a pm, let me know if you want a longer story, or if the natural arc of this story needs to wrap up soon before I wreck a good thing. Honestly, I could go either way, but I need to know sooner rather than later to adjust the time line. If you'd like to see a longer story, please jump over to my profile. I have a poll that lists several episodes I could re-work to fit the nature of this story line, and every voter may vote for five. **

**As Always,**

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**Prisoner of War-Chapter Fifteen**

"**The Absence of Motion"**

Dean stepped out of the hotel room, closing the door as quietly as he could manage.

They'd only driven about four hours outside of Jericho before Dean had made the executive decision to pull over for the night.

The motel was even crappier than usual, but Dean had been forced to pay with cash, as his most recent credit card was obviously compromised.

Sam couldn't have cared less, however, at least as far as Dean could tell.

The kid never said a word, but sweat had been sheening his brow by the time they had stopped, and Dean had given up trying to figure out if it was pain, illness or exhaustion bringing it on.

He'd doped the kid up with everything he could lay his hands on that wouldn't cause adverse reactions with anything else, hustled him into a shower, bundled him into bed with every pillow he could find (because, of course, that damned cough was back again, Christ, could they catch a break already?) and then, for the hell of it, once the pain killers and cold medicine had started really kicking in, he'd wrestled Sammy into a sling to help immobilize his shoulder.

Now Sam was sleeping, at least until the nightmares woke him again (and Dean was getting pretty good and tired of those, he and Sam were gonna have a come-to-Jesus about those dreams if they didn't kick rocks soon).

Walking a couple of feet away, he leaned against the Impala, staring at his phone in consternation.

He didn't know who to call.

Something was wrong with Sam.

Not sick wrong, or busted shoulder wrong, or just worn out and tired wrong.

Something was wrong with his kid, and Dean couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he was having trouble ignoring it any longer.

Sam wasn't acting like Sam, hadn't been acting like Sam for weeks now.

And not just the crazy ghost-whispering act Sam seemed determined to perfect, though that was all kinds of alarming all on it's own.

No.

Something about Sam was wrong.

Really, deeply, truly fundamentally wrong.

He wasn't acting like himself. He wouldn't talk to Dean, about the good, the bad or anything that wasn't absolutely need to know.

The kid Dean had raised was a first class chatter box, how many times growing up had Dean taken Sam to the library to get books just to make the kid shut up for a while? Of course, books had always been a mixed blessing, because Sam loved to talk about whatever it was he was reading, and Dean had always been his favorite (and captive, at times) audience.

But Dean hadn't seen Sam read anything not case related since before he went to the Carolinas to hunt with Caleb. Not even for school, which was a whole other problem. Sam had been out of school for several weeks now, and it was unfortunately necessary, between his illnesses and injuries and John's cases, but his brother should have been screaming bloody murder by now.

Sam should have been threatening to hitchhike to Pastor Jim's in Minnesota and enroll himself, which they had sometimes done (not the hitchhiking part, obviously).

But Sam hadn't said a word.

And tonight. Tonight was just the icing on the cake.

Dean had given Sam an order, a sensible order that fell in line with everything John had ever instructed him to do in regards to caring for his younger brother, and not only had Sam massively, epically disobeyed, but he had done so with John's apparent blessing.

Dean couldn't get over the look on Sam's face, in that moment when he had rammed the Buick into the farmhouse. It had been almost manic, like Sam had been releasing some pent up tiger that had been locked up inside him, prowling and snarling.

He hadn't looked nervous or worried or scared.

He'd laughed.

Dean was a risk taker, a first class risk taker, in fact. But Sam had always been calmer, more likely to think things through, and the balance had always seemed to work for them.

But Dean honestly felt like he couldn't guess Sam's thoughts, his course of action anymore. For sixteen years, Dean could probably have identified every single damn hair on that kid's head, and now, tonight, he almost felt like he was driving in a car with a stranger.

He wanted his brother back.

Dean considered calling John, but in all honesty, he was still uncomfortable with the knowledge that John had knowingly allowed Sam to move forward without back up. The one thing John had always drilled into Dean's mind was 'protect Sammy' and tonight seemed like a declaration of war on the primary tenet of Dean's existence.

He dialed a different number instead, holding his breath as he listened to the ring.

"Bobby." Dean said lowly. "Don't say my name. Go outside, away from Dad. I need to talk to you."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam slipped outside quietly.

He doubted Dean would sleep in much longer, but Sam didn't need all that long, really. His chest was too bad to jog, and his shoulder to sore to stand for any real activity anyway. He'd simply needed to be outside, and he walked slowly over to the Impala, and climbed carefully onto her hood.

The last of the stars were fading away into the early morning light, and Sam closed his eyes, breathing in as deeply as he could. Thankfully, he didn't feel as bad as he'd feared this morning, all things considered.

But Dean was officially and completely FREAKED OUT all over again, and Sam had needed some time to gather his thoughts before they had hit the road again.

He'd spent the night trapped in a drug tinged loop of nightmares, the painkillers serving to make it harder to wake up, but Sam didn't really feel any more rested.

Images of drowning children had been chased by images of a faceless blonde woman burning on the ceiling, which in turn had been chased by images of his father and brother, backs turned to him as they strode off into the distance, and no matter how fast Sam ran, he could never catch up.

Sometimes he thought he should just run away, away from John and Dean. Run away from them before they could turn away from him, from the monstrous, evil time bomb ticking inside of him.

But Sam figured if he had any chance for redemption, no matter how slim, it would be right where he was, fighting the monsters.

The dark inside him seemed to lean that direction anyway, if his new talents were any indication.

The vision (and he could dance around the word all he wanted, but that was, in fact, what it was) that had hit him at the farmhouse was just one more piece of proof that everything he had read in John's journal was true.

Even Constance had seemed to sense it, back on the bridge, outside of Jericho.

"What are you?"

The question whispered across his memory again, and Sam wished he had no answer.

"I'm a monster." He whispered as the last star blinked out of existence.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean jerked open the door of the motel, visibly relaxing when he spied his brother splayed out on the hood, fast asleep. It was barely past seven, and he wondered how long ago Sam had wandered out here.

Sam had always had an almost peculiar ability to sleep in the car, or even on the car.

Dean loved the Impala, she was the third most important person in his life, and to be honest, he'd slept in her more times than could be counted, but he wasn't like Sam.

John used to drive them miles out of the way when Sam was an infant, just to give the Impala's engine a chance to soothe a teething Sammy back to sleep. When Sam was five or six, he'd taken to sleep walking on occasion, but they'd always find him, curled up in the back seat of the Impala.

He hadn't slept walked for real in years, but Dean knew he still had a habit of using the Impala as a touchstone of sorts, especially when he was tired.

The old, Sammy-like habit was actually soothing to Dean, and he took a moment to just watch his brother, studying his features.

He was still too thin, and though Dean didn't even want to think the words, he thought the kid might have somehow managed to grow another half an inch when Dean wasn't looking. The way he was going, he'd end up six three, or even taller.

Making a split second decision, he went back inside for the blanket from Sam's bed. He climbed onto the hood of the Impala beside Sam, glad they had taken the room at the far back end, facing the woods behind the motel.

John would be calling soon, wanting to know their location, but in the meantime, Dean allowed himself to relax beside his sleeping brother.

His conversation with Bobby from the night before played through his mind.

It wasn't that Bobby hadn't believed Dean, per se, as much as he wasn't sure it wasn't just Sam just growing up, and growing away from Dean by default.

Dean had struggled for the words to describe his fears, his unease, but he wasn't sure he'd gotten through. He'd tried describing Sam, how he'd looked when he'd crashed the car, how he hadn't even thought about how hurt he could get, was already.

In turn, Bobby had pointed out that both John and Dean were notorious risk takers, and hadn't they been training Sam since he was twelve to do what needed to be done?

Dean had been forced to concede Bobby's point, but it had done little to quell his anxiety.

Finally, Bobby had simply told Dean to stop talking.

Literally.

Bobby had said that if he wanted Sam to start talking to him again, he needed to stop talking AT Sam and start making sure that Sam had chances to talk to Dean if he ever felt the need.

The whole concept was foreign to Dean, for as long as he could remember, Sam had never hesitated to make his needs or wants known.

Sam had talked early, clearly and loudly, asking for this, demanding that.

When that didn't work, he'd taught himself to walk early, practically skipping the crawling stage, and proceeding to get whatever he wanted for himself all on his own.

There was no way all of Sam's old thoughts and opinions had just disappeared overnight. He still wanted to go to school, still hated hunting and training. He still disagreed with John.

He had to.

It wasn't like he'd just woken up with the hunting bug one morning. He hadn't converted to hunting as a religion or read some magic book that made the life suddenly appealing.

But new and improved Sam had a bad habit of always insisting he was fine, so maybe Bobby had a point. Maybe Sam's feelings of abandonment from when Dean left him to hunt with Caleb had Sam thinking that Dean didn't care about his problems anymore.

Maybe Sam had just decided that if he didn't have any problems with their lives anymore, it wouldn't hurt if Dean walked away again rather than listen to them.

He had certainly had never meant to give Sam that impression, he'd just wanted to stop feeling like a rope in a game of tug of war between Sammy and John.

Dean cared, he just hadn't known how to make Sam understand that the family, and the family business, was important. They stopped the bad guys. They stuck together.

He hadn't known how to get that through to Sam, how important that was, how scary it could be all alone.

So when he'd left to meet Caleb, he'd hoped John's plan would work.

And it had, on the surface, but Dean knew that had to be all it was. Now Sammy was acting like he wanted to hunt. He didn't even care about his own safety, acting like he had to earn Dean and John's approval.

Dean understood the feeling of needing to earn approval, especially when it came to John, but it broke his brain to try to think of his confident little brother thinking something like that.

That wasn't who Sam was.

Perhaps that was what was bothering Dean the most. The injuries and illnesses were horrible, of course, but not entirely unexpected in their line of work.

But the way Sam had shown up at the library, so short of breath he had nearly passed out, simply to bring Dean a lead? The way he had told John he hadn't needed back up, when Sam had to know that he was outnumbered?

Why did Dean's self assured little brother suddenly feel like he needed to earn his place, when John and Dean had spent his whole life waiting for Sam to want it in the first place?

They'd pretty much been in a constant state of motion since Dean had returned, except for when Sam had been so sick he probably couldn't have talked if he'd wanted to.

Maybe Dean just needed to reaffirm to Sam that he wasn't going anywhere. Sam didn't have to earn Dean's approval, he didn't have to earn anything, as far as Dean was concerned. As long as Sam was breathing, Dean would figure out the rest, no matter how long it took.

So Dean spread the blanket out over his brother, and laid back, crossing his feet and watching the sun come up.

Sam could wait as long as he needed to.

Dean wasn't going anywhere.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Okay, so all the feed back I received indicated everyone would be happier with a longer story, so I've decided to see just what Sam 2.0 is capable of. I haven't done my new outline just yet, as I'm still waiting for all you wonderful readers to go to my profile and vote on what episodes you want re-wrote and featured in this story. The poll has lots of fun options, and each of you can vote on up to five, SO GO VOTE : )**

**So, since I needed to re-vamp the story line a little, I decided to make life easier on myself and give the boys a home base for the next few months. May I introduce you to Caroline, Colorado, which I swear to god I made up, so if it really exists, don't tell me. I am not a Colorado native, and though I try desperately hard to avoid plotholes, I do not have a ton of time to research geography and such, so if I make any logistical errors, I apologize. Colorado suited my needs for the majority of the episodes I am likeley to be re-writing, so I created a town and plopped the Winchesters there.**

**I have some amazing readers and reviewers, and I'd like to thank all of you for your loyalty to this story, it means so much to me! This story has more reviews than any story I've ever written, that I know of anyway, and I am anxiously watching to see if I can hit the one hundred review mark, so I you have a moment, I will be endlessly grateful.**

**I hope you enjoy!**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**Prisoner of War- Chapter Sixteen **

"**Born Under a Lucky Star"**

Sam slammed the door shut on his locker, dodging the multitude of elbows and arms as teens wrestled themselves into jackets before heading out into the afternoon sun.

They'd been holed up in Caroline, Colorado for a little more than a week now, but Dean had insisted on keeping Sam home the first few days, so this was only Sam's second day at the high school.

Sam hadn't really wanted to stay cooped up in the house with his restless brother, but Dean;s frustration levels appeared to be reaching all new highs, thanks to John's most recent behavior, and Sam hadn't had the energy to battle Dean on it.

Adjusting his backpack on the shoulder that wasn't in the sling, he maneuvered as carefully as he could through the crowded hall way. Caroline was a town of only about fifteen-hundred people, but apparently practically every house in town had at least one teenager, as full as the high school seemed.

It wasn't actually all that surprisingly.

Caroline was gorgeous, near the mountains without being so far above sea level that the weather was always crappy. Lots of biking and hiking, and only a few hours from Boulder and Denver. It was a pretty ideal place for families, small enough to feel safe, big enough to have a stable economy. Low crime rate, low unemployment.

Sam had used to yearn to live in a town like this.

"Sam, man, how ya doin?" The dark haired guy came up to him with a friendly grin, and Sam racked his mind for his name quickly.

Trent.

"Pretty good, Trent, how's it hanging?" He asked as casually as he could, curious why the kid was even speaking to him. They had a couple of classes together, but Sam didn't think they'd actually managed to speak once even so far in the two days Sam had been there.

"Awesome, man. Hey, me and some of the guys were wondering, when's the sling come off?" Trent replied, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and rocking back on his heels.

"Huh? Oh, another couple of days, I guess. My brother's idea, I wrenched it last week, and he didn't want me to make it worse by using it to much. It's just a precaution, really." Sam said in confusion, unsure of why Trent could possibly care about his bum shoulder.

"Awesome, man, totally awesome!" Trent crowed, high fiving another boy who'd walked up to join the conversation.

"Oh, hey, this is Derek." Trent said, gesturing to the new comer. Derek grinned, miles of too-white teeth in braces-perfect rows, neat and even.

"Look, I was asking cause basketball tryouts are next week, and face it, man, you are one tall dude. Hard to believe you're only a junior." Trent said good naturedly.

"Yeah...weird, huh?" Sam said, feeling like he had fallen into an episode of the twilight zone. He'd spent his whole life as the geeky kid holed up in the library, and now some jock was asking him to join their team? It was true that Sam was pretty tall for a junior, and despite his recent weight loss, he was in decent shape.

Still, Sam had spent years being the new kid on the fringe of things, desperate to fit in but never quite managing it.

"So what do you think?" Trent asked, grinning.

"Um... yeah. Uh, maybe. To be honest, we move around a lot, and my dad likes us to do family stuff on the weekends, you know, camping and stuff."

"No biggie, man, just think about it. My 'rents are all into the great outdoors too, but to be honest, camping blows. Hunting's okay, though, you ever go shooting?" Trent asked.

"You could say that. Dad's ex-military." Sam said with a laugh.

If they only knew, he thought wryly.

"Ouch." Trent said with a laugh. "Well, hey, just think about it, alright?"

"Sure." Sam agreed, simply to finish up the world's weirdest conversation.

The other two guys headed the other way, and Sam finished walking out the doors, heading towards the parking lot. Dean had insisted on picking him up, at least until Sam's shoulder was better, though Sam wasn't really sure what walking had to do with his shoulder.

Dean was outside, leaning against his Impala, surrounded by a flock of girls, and Sam didn't even spare the effort to be surprised.

He did wonder why Dean didn't look more pleased with himself, though.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean grinned charmingly at the gaggle of girls that had predictably gathered around Baby almost as soon as he pulled up.

"So, you're obviously not a student." The girl, a pretty brunette, barely managed to say the words without giggling.

"Nah. I'm just picking up my brother, Sam." Dean said easily, flashing the charm smile one more time for good measure.

"Ooohhh!" The girls nearly chorused as one, looking at each other and giggling some more.

"Are you Sam Winchester's brother?" Another asked, pushing wavy blonde hair out of her face. Pretty green eyes stared up at him widely.

Caught a little off guard, Dean laughed awkwardly. "Well, I like to think of Sam as my brother."

"He is sooo tall!" The first one squealed, and Dean pulled a face.

He'd known the kid getting taller than him was going to pose problems for him.

Sam walked up just then, giving Dean a bemused look as the girls suddenly shoved off, a giggling unit in bootleg jeans and rainbow layered t-shirts.

"Bye, Sam!" The blonde called, and Sam waved, confusion evident on his face.

Looking at his brother, he asked "What just happened?"

"I have no idea." Dean replied in honest confusion.

Getting into the car, he reached out a took Sam's pack from him, tossing it in the backseat.

"How's the shoulder?" Dean asked, searching Sam's face for any indication he was in pain.

Sam shrugged. "It's fine." He replied.

Dean barely resisted beating his head into the steering wheel.

"Fine." He muttered, pulling out onto the road that led from the high school.

He took the turn that would lead them to the quaint, downtown neighborhood that housed the diner Dean had already staked a claim on as his own, possibly because they featured a different kind of pie on special every night of the week.

"We're not going home?" Sam asked, one brow lifted.

Dean's lips tightened. "Dad had company." He said shortly.

Sam didn't say anything else, though for once, Dean almost wished he would.

John had set up a base of sorts here in Caroline, renting out an old Victorian house that looked like they should be exorcising it instead of living in it. Dean had been confused by the size of John's choice, before he realized just how many people were coming in and out, sometimes crashing for a night, other times leaving after only an hour or two.

John's newest hunt hadn't wrapped up, quite the contrary, it appeared to have grown in size, with new hunters showing up and leaving again all the time, as well as some familiar faces. Caleb had shown up and then left again yesterday, and Rufus, who had used to partner with Bobby, had come through the day before.

Whatever John was hunting, it was massive, and Dean was gnashing his teeth in quiet, seething frustration, because John refused to tell them anything about it.

Instead, he'd already sent Dean on a podunk salt and burn a few hours south. None of the other hunters would tell them anything, and as hard as Dean wanted to be obedient, he couldn't help but chafe at the thought that John didn't think he was ready to hunt whatever he and the other, older hunters were tracking.

Sam remained silent, and Dean determined that if Sam could handle the insult with grace, than he damn well could too.

For now, anyway.

They entered the diner and managed to get seated right away, as they were somewhat ahead of the dinner rush.

"Seriously, though. How is your arm? And your cough?" Dean asked again, as he flipped through the menu.

"It's really fine, Dean. I probably don't even need the sling." Sam said with a sigh.

"The sling stays." Dean said firmly. "And your cough?"

Sam barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes. "Almost gone. I'm fine, Dean. I really am."

The waitress came up then, and they both placed their orders, Dean making it a point to add an order of fries to Sam's order, still worried about how much weight Sam had lost recently.

"So, Dad find a new hunt for us yet?" Sam asked, near the end of their meal, as he picked at his salad.

Dean frowned. "What, you bored already? Figured you'd be thrilled for a couple of days to get settled into your new school. Don't they have all those advanced placement classes you're always talking about?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, but we're not gonna be here long, so why get attached?" He said casually.

Dean sent him a sharp, measuring look. "Well, about that. I was talking to Dad, and he mentioned wintering here. You've been sick, and the location here is central to a lot of his contacts. I applied for some part time work at an auto shop just a couple blocks from here. The guy took one look at Baby and added a dollar an hour to my starting pay."

Sam looked at him, wide eyed. "Wait, so...we're staying? And you got a job? A real, honest to god job?"

Dean shrugged, uncomfortable. "Well, a real, honest to god part time job, anyway. We need need to be free to take hunts, Dad just wants this to be base camp for the next few months."

"Whatever he's working on, it must be big." Sam said musingly.

"For all the good it'll do us." Dean said sourly.

Sam shrugged again. "He'll let us know when he needs us." He frowned. "I should get an after school job too, then, if we're gonna be here that long."

Dean scowled. "No need, Sammy. I got it covered. You're busy enough with school and hunting. You'll never get any sleep if you take a job on too."

He disliked the idea of Sam getting a job. Not because the kid couldn't handle it, he was sure Sam could handle just about anything he put his mind to it. But he'd been sick, really sick, and he'd missed a ton of school. It had been one thing for Dean to take his GED, but Sam was something else.

Not to mention, Dean took it as a point of pride to be able to provide for his family, to make sure Sam had shoes and a cell phone and food.

Sam shook his head. "It's cool man. Clothes and food and stuff, it all takes money. It's time I started carrying my weight anyway."

"No." Dean's voice rang with finality, and Sam pulled back a little from Dean's vehemence.

Softening his voice, Dean added, "I got this kiddo. You just focus on those AP classes you're always talking about, and make sure your ready whenever Dad needs us, okay."

Sam looked at him solemnly, then shrugged with one shoulder. "Sure, Dean. Whatever you say."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Sam ambled out into the living room a few days later, stretching his shoulder out experimentally.

It was Saturday, and the house was quiet. It was too early for the older Winchesters to be up voluntarily, and for once they hadn't had any over night house guests. The rental was so big he and Dean each had their own room, though it seemed to freak out Dean a little, and he had a tendency to barge in Sam's room arbitrarily whenever he thought he needed to check on him.

Sam kept expecting John to assign him training on days when there wasn't a hunt, but so far John had been silent on the matter, and he wondered if Dean had something to do with it.

He walked out to the porch and finished stretching out, checking that he had his cell phone in his pocket before starting out at a slow jog up the street.

Caroline really was beautiful, picturesque and quiet, and it almost hurt Sam physically sometimes, looking at everything he had ever wanted now that he knew he never had a chance in hell of having it.

Slowly, he increased his pace, until he was going at a fairly fast clip, long legs eating up the pavement. His chest was burning, but really, it wasn't anything that would kill him, and he'd gone to long without running, so he pushed himself to make up for it.

He'd found he'd actually missed running, when he'd been too sick to do it. It was his time to clear his head, to get away from John and Dean and the watchful eyes and careful words, and Sam always having to work so hard to make sure he was fine-fine-fine.

He was determined to get his strength back. In Jericho, he'd finally managed to do something right, and he was determined that it wasn't going to be a one time experience. He'd taken a lot of chances. But it had worked out, and anyway, it wasn't like he was signed up for happily ever after anyway.

He slowed as he came to the downtown section near the diner Dean liked. Despite his best intentions, his chest was trying to seize up on him, and he was forced to sit down on a bench and wait it out.

He leaned forward, pulling in breath's as deep as he could manage, determined to get this nonsense under control. How the hell was he supposed to hunt if he couldn't even breathe?

Looking up, he spied a newspaper someone had left on the bench the day before.

Remembering his and Dean's conversation from a few days before, he picked it up, intending to look through the help wanted ads. Despite whatever Dean said, Sam was tired of being a burden. Dean and John paid for his food, his clothes, his shoes. The only time he had money of his own was when Dean or John gave it to him. Sure, he knew how to run a card scam as good as John by now, but he was to young to get away with using a credit card most of the time, and credit card fraud didn't really seem to fall into his "earn redemption or die trying" game plan.

If they were gonna be sticking around Caroline for a while, he ought to at least try and earn some of his own money, even if he was just washing dishes a few nights a week.

An article on the front page caught his eye.

"Third person in three weeks wins lottery in small town- Is Berryville, Colorado the luckiest place on earth?" The headline read, and Sam snorted.

More likely, it was the nation's gambling capital or something.

Lotto tickets were just statistics. The more you played, the bigger the possibility you would eventually win something. Whether or not your winnings made up for what you spent trying to win remained to be seen.

He turned the next page, scanning for the want adds.

Right next to the help wanted ads were the wedding announcements. Sam's eyebrows went up when he looked at the couple in the large black and white picture.

The woman was gorgeous, an easy "10" as Dean would say.

The man...not so much.

"Maybe it is the luckiest town on earth." Sam murmured, reading the couple's hometown.

Berryville.

Playing on a hunch now, he scanned through the rest of the paper, no longer interested in the help wanted ads.

He found what he was looking for on the very last page.

"Local man swears he was attacked by giant, talking bear." The caption read.

"Yeah. That's not normal." Sam said to himself, pushing to his feet and started the jog back to their house, newspaper tucked underneath one arm.

Looks like he'd found them a case.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Yay! Next Chapter of POW. So this story seems to have a rhythm to it. It'll have a couple of slow chapters spent almost entirely in the characters heads, and then it will have a couple of action based case fic chapters. Then it will revert back to introspection again as the characters assimilate everything that's happened. I don't really do it on purpose, that's just what seems natural for the Winchesters. Hope everyone likes this chapter. After this, we'll see a couple of faster moving chapters. Best case scenario, I'll have another one up tomorrow.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**Prisoner of War – Chapter Seventeen **

"**Pancakes and Other Problems"**

Sam half-walked, half-jogged into the house, trying to be quiet at first, as he didn't know if John and Dean were still sleeping upstairs.

Almost immediately, however, Dean popped his head out from around the corner.

"Hey, Sammy, I was just about to call your cell, where were you ma- Hey! Where's your sling?" Dean asked indignantly.

Sam managed to refrain from rolling his eyes at Dean's over-protectiveness. "On my bed." He answered simply, coming into the kitchen.

"Take a look at this." Sam said, tossing the newspaper onto the kitchen table. "I think I found us a case."

"In the Caroline Tribune?" Dean asked sceptically. He was standing at the stove cooking, and Sam could smell eggs and bacon.

The nice thing about John and the other hunters coming in and out of their house was the fact that there was usually some food around, not that Sam had much appetite these days.

"The Caroline Tribune features articles from the surrounding towns also, all these small town papers do." Sam pointed out patiently.

"That's cause nothing newsworthy ever happens here." Dean said flippantly. "Hey, do we have pancake mix? And put your damn sling back on already, you're gonna jack your shoulder up moving it around like that."

"My shoulder's fine." Sam argued. "It's actually designed to move around, oddly enough. And no, to my knowledge, we do not, nor have we ever had pancake mix in our kitchen. Look at this-" Sam picked up the paper, turning to the article about Berryville, featuring the three lottery winners in the last two weeks.

"Huh. Gambling capital, huh?" Dean asked, then frowned. "Dude, your shoulder's not okay, or you wouldn't be making your scrunchy-pain face right now. And what do you mean we've never had pancake mix? I've bought pancake mix."

"I'm making the scrunchy face because my brother doesn't know the difference between frozen waffles and pancake mix, and three, big ticket winners, in one town, in two weeks? Tell me that's not hinky."

"I'm telling you to put your sling back on." Dean said snidely. "And I'll have you know, I can make excellent pancakes."

"Have you been drinking?" Sam asked sarcastically. "Okay, so get this then." He said, showing Dean the article about the talking bear.

"Well, I haven't been drinking but this dude obviously was." Dean said with one brow raised. "Giant, talking bear? Come on, Sammy, what, are we hunting big foot now?"

"Sam, I would have though you'd know by now that Big Foot isn't real." John interrupted then, walking into the kitchen and pouring himself some coffee.

"Only a fool would follow up on some drunk hunter's story about something like that." He said dismissively.

Sam opened his mouth, and Dean looked at him, waiting to see his reply.

But Sam closed his mouth just as suddenly, and a completely blank look came over his face.

"Yes, Sir." He said simply, and without another word, he gathered up the paper, folding it in careful, precise folds before dropping it in the kitchen trash.

John sat down with his cup of coffee, laying his journal down to add some notes in his signature long hand.

"I'm gonna grab a shower." Sam said impassively, heading out of the room.

Dean frowned and sighed. "Breakfast in ten!" He called, and Sam mumbled a confirmation, already heading up the stairs.

Dean turned back to the stove, disappointment heavy in his chest.

For just a moment, while they had bantered, it had felt a little like having the old Sam back.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam stood under the hot spray of the shower, water turned up as hot as he could make it. It was the only way he seemed able to stand to shower anymore, the only time he seemed to manage to fully chase away the chill that seemed to haunt him.

He could dress in all the layers in the world, lay under every blanket in their house, and he'd still feel cold.

He thought maybe the cold was leeching out from somewhere inside him, from that frozen, echoing place his thoughts always seemed to wander to if he didn't tether them down tightly with iron chains.

He resolutely refused to think about Berryville.

He was right about Berryville.

_He knew he was right_, could feel it in the tingle in his fingertips, could feel it dance along the hairs on the back on his neck.

His instincts, or ability, or whatever the hell it was, was screaming at him louder than a soprano singing the closing aria of Carmen, but that...was...just...fine.

Fine.

It was fine.

It was fine and Sam was fine and Berryville was just...freakin'...fine.

Because John Winchester had said so, and the Winchester boys didn't have religion, oh no.

They had the word of John.

So Sam would forget about Berryville.

He would get out of the shower, and get dressed and go downstairs and eat.

And he would be fine.

Because he would make himself be.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

John left right after breakfast, and Sam moved without a word to go to the kitchen and start cleaning up. Dean followed, hoping he could get Sam talking again, like they had been before John had come in and completely misconstrued the earlier conversation.

Sam hadn't said another word, not about the paper, not about Berryville, not about pancakes.

In fact, Sam was once again wearing his "I'm fine" face, as Dean had come to call it.

Sam started the water to wash the dishes, and Dean bagged up the trash, running it outside quickly, as a light rain had started falling. Sam had his hands in the water nearly up to his elbows when Dean returned, and the sight of Sam's arms submerged in the sink reminded Dean once again about Sam's sling.

Shouldering his brother on his good side, he said "Sling, Sammy. I mean it. There's only a couple dishes left, I'll finish them. Don't you have homework or something?"

"It's fine." Sam said, and Dean wasn't sure if he was talking about his shoulder or the dishes or the end of the freaking Mayan Calendar.

"Dude, put your damn sling on already." Dean snapped, tired of talking to zombie Sam. "If you hurt it worse, you're useless on a hunt, okay?"

Almost as soon as the words came out he wanted to take them back, to call and coax them back down his throat and as far away from Sam as he could get them, because the look in Sam's eyes, the way they'd...shuttered, almost, as if Sam were locking himself away from Dean in his own mind made Dean want to put his fist through a wall.

"Sam..." he started lamely, unsure of what to say to fix things.

'It's..." Sam paused, looking at Dean before phrasing the next words carefully. "It's okay, Dean. You're right. I'll go put the sling on."

He was gone before Dean could get an apology out, and Dean was left there, cursing himself for every kind of fool.

Great way to get the kid to open up.

Annoyed, he stuck his hand into the dishwater to drain the sink, but jerked his hand back almost immediately, cursing at the shock of the water's temperature.

How the hell had Sam managed to do a sink full of dishes in water like that?

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam came back downstairs half an hour later, a book in Latin in hand.

Bobby had left it for John, and John had instructed Sam to translate it. He was nearly done, though now he wished he had another four hundred pages left to do, because once it was done, he'd have to think of something else to do.

He knew Dean was off this weekend, and since he'd put the sling on, it kind of ruled out any other training.

Maybe he could just start over and no one would notice.

"Hey, Sam, I'm sorry." Dean was standing awkwardly in the door way of the living room, a concerned expression on his face.

"Don't be, you were right." Sam said calmly. He'd spent the last thirty minutes upstairs locking his head and his heart down tight, he didn't feel like getting in to it with Dean now.

"So, listen. I took a look at the paper. Maybe you're right. We're both free this afternoon. Berryville's only about two hours away. I've been itching to do a little driving anyway. Let's go check it out." Dean offered, not making eye contact.

Sam swallowed, speaking as lightly as he could. "Check what out, Dean? Dad's right, Big Foot's a hoax, and the lottery commission would've discovered if the winning tickets were fakes."

"Could be a spell of some sort, a luck spell, maybe?" Dean said, frowning.

Sam forced down a growing sense of excitement. Actually, what Dean was saying sounded about right to him.

More than that, it felt right to him.

But John had said no.

Furthermore, Sam had a sneaking suspicion that Dean was only even offering because he felt guilty about pointing out to Sam how useless he was with a bum shoulder.

"Uh...actually, I have a couple of chapters I need to translate. I thought I'd go over to the library. A couple of these conjugations are giving me trouble." Sam hedged.

Dean raised a brow. "Really. You? Having trouble with Latin? You speak it like a Roman, dude. It's not even natural how good you are at it."

Sam forced himself not to flinch when Dean said the words 'not natural'.

"I guess there's a first time for everything." He said, shoving his good hand in his pocket, shifting his feet.

"Huh. Okay, well, Dad wants that translation, so we better get you to the library." Dean agreed easily enough.

Sam looked up at him sharply. "I was just gonna walk, it's only a couple of blocks."

"Sure." Dean conceded, "If by a couple you mean twelve. In the rain. When you just got over pneumonia." He finished sarcastically, and Sam stiffened.

"Get your stuff, man. I'll give you a ride. I'll go over to the shop and see if I can pick up a couple of hours overtime." Dean commanded. "Oh, bring a jacket, dude. It's October in Colorado, and you're running around in a t-shirt. No wonder you're always cold."

Sam nodded, turning to go up to his room.

The rental was so big he and Dean actually had separate rooms for once. It was both freeing and a little frightening all at once.

Sam could remember a thousand nights he had soothed himself back to sleep after a nightmare by timing his breathing to Dean's steady rhythm.

Now when he woke, it was to silence.

He reminded himself that it was a good thing. He was too dependent on Dean anyway. Dean wasn't Sam's teddy bear, something for him to hold onto tightly until the monsters went away.

That theory kinda went to hell considering Sam was one of the monsters, after all.

He picked up his hoodie in his good hand and then sighed, frowning.

Hoodies and slings didn't really work.

He'd have to take the sling off, put the hoodie on, put the sling back on. Then if he got hot, he'd have to go back through the whole process all over again in order to strip down. He pulled out his old denim jacket instead, intending to just put his good arm through and drape the other side over his bum shoulder.

It was too small.

Sam laughed a little, a bitter chuckle that actually surprised him at how tired and hopeless it sounded.

Christ, he couldn't even get a jacket on himself.

"That's a problem." Dean said suddenly from the doorway, startling Sam.

"Shit, Dean." He mumbled, turning away until he knew his face was under control again.

"You should have said you needed more clothes, man. That jacket the only thing you outgrow? What about your shoes? They pinch?" Dean said questioningly, and Sam felt himself shrinking, becoming younger and more helpless with every concerned word that came from his big brother's lips.

"Clothes cost money. Money's been tight." He muttered.

Dean frowned. "Yeah, not that tight, dude. Your clothes gotta fit, man. We can't afford DFS jumping our asses cause some teacher thinks you're homeless or something."

"I don't see that happening." Sam forced the words out past the tightness of his throat.

"Damn right it's not happening. Screw the library, let's hit the Salvation Army store. They always got decent boots. We'll grab some jeans and a jacket for you." Dean tossed over his shoulder as he walked out of the room.

"We don't have to do that Dean. I've made do longer with worse." Sam pointed out.

"Kinda the point of the mechanics job, Sammy. If I'm going to be all 'upstanding citizen' and all that crap, we might as well get some provisions out of it." Dean argued, and Sam had trouble disagreeing with his logic.

"Fine. But next week, after school, I'm going to see about getting a dish washing job at that cafe over by the school." Sam insisted, trying to reason away the shame he felt at Dean having to take care of him once again.

"Whatever, man. Tomorrow an asteroid could hit the freakin' earth. Let's move. Here, use this one." Dean tossed Sam his leather jacket and pulled on a green canvas one instead.

Sam struggled into it, feeling small the way he always did when he wore something of Dean's, no matter that he was, in fact, taller than his brother now.

They got into the Impala, Sam staring out of the window, letting the passing scenery calm his nerves.

He told himself that it was alright, that Dean had a better chance to earn income because of his age, that was all.

Next week, Sam would turn applications if he had to walk until his feet fell off. Then he'd start getting a paycheck of his own, and he wouldn't have to feel this way anymore.

He wouldn't have to feel shame that the brother whose life he had literally ruined worked crap hours for slave wages in order to buy him shoes.

He blinked a few moments later, a little disoriented.

"Hey, Dean, man, we just passed the city limits sign. Salvation Army's on the west end of town." Sam looked over, tilting his head a little as he studied his brother.

Dean had a mulish expression on his face, and he wouldn't look over at Sam.

"Figured if Caroline had a Salvation Army, Berryville would, too." He said finally, turning on the wipers as the rain increased.

"Dean..." Sam said slowly, not sure of what to say.

"Sam. Seriously. You think I want to be known as the hunter who let Big Foot get away? Hell no. If I catch that fucker, I drink for free for the rest of my life." Dean bragged.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean."

"Let it go, Sammy. Just enjoy the ride. Your book's in your back pack. Bet you can have it done by the time we reach Berryville." Dean said, relaxing into the drivers seat.

A long moment passed, and Sam smiled just a little. "Yeah." He said softly.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

The drive passed in comfortable silence, Sam engrossed in his translations, and Dean enjoying the feel of his Baby purring softly under his fingertips. He'd always loved driving, loved being in motion, the feeling of going somewhere new. It didn't matter that the next place was likely to be just as crappy as the previous.

What mattered was the drive, with his brother beside him. When Dean was in the car with Sam, he always knew where he was, if he was warm enough, if he was hungry. If Sam needed to rest, the car ride would put him right out, neat as you please.

The Impala was Dean's own personal kingdom, and when he was driving, for just a moment, all could be right in his world.

He glanced over at his brother, at the serious look on his face.

He'd taken a gamble, tricking Sam like he had, but it looked like it might pay off.

He doubted they'd find anything in Berryville, but Sam looked better already, perhaps simply from getting out of the house.

Dean had known Sam was lying about needing to go to the library in order to translate, the kid had learned Latin at Bobby's knee started when he was four or five. He hadn't even known why he was learning it, Bobby had started teaching it to him on a whim, a desperate attempt to quiet an incessantly questioning five year old.

Sam had taken to it like a fish to water, thinking it was a fine game, to have a secret language that he and Bobby and Dean and John all knew. He'd quickly outpaced both Dean and John.

So Sam needing "help" was about as likely as Dean giving up red meat.

Dean hoped that the outing would help his brother shake off the somber mood he'd been in for days now.

Worst case scenario, the case wouldn't pan out. It wouldn't be the first time, and in all likelihood, Berryville did, in fact, have a second hand store.

Sam seriously needed a jacket that fit.

And shoes. And boots.

And a coat...

A big brother's job was never done.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Here you go, kiddos, chapter eighteen of "Prisoner of War". I'd like to start by thanking all my readers, you guys are really faithful and I deeply appreciate it. And thank you also to my reviewers, your feed back helps me gauge whether or not this story is coming across as I intend to it to.**

**Let's see, as far as notes go, a couple of interesting things. If you are following my fluffy, hurt and comfort fic, How To Fix a Winchester, it updated yesterday. I've received some really great prompt for some upcoming chapters, the next of which is already in the works. My Darkside Sam project, "All The Pretty Monsters" updated yesterday also, and I really love the direction it's going in.**

**Lastly, because I am obviously insane, I debuted a new story yesterday. It's called "Tuesday's Child" and the main characters will be Sam, Dean and everyone's favorite Arch Angel, Gabriel.**

"**Tuesday's Child" was meant to take the place of "Prisoner of War" in my posting schedule once "Prisoner of War" concluded, but since I've decided to lengthen this story, it kinda pushed "Tuesday's Child" to the back burner, which bummed me out a little. **

**So I decided to go ahead and get the prologue out, as a kind of demo. To be clear, "Tuesday's Child" will not update too often at first, because I'm still involved in two large projects which come first, as they have a dedicated reader base, but the response so far has been really good, so I will try to update a couple of times a month, then, when this story concludes, "Tuesday's Child" will start updating more regularly.**

**Just wanted to fill you guys in, but don't worry, I'm committed to "Prisoner of War" and it's update schedule, so for now, "Tuesday's Child" is just a fun bonus when I get my work done, lol.**

**As Always, **

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**Prisoner of War- Chapter Eighteen**

"**The Fortune Cookie Club"**

They made good time going to Berryville, despite the rainy weather, pulling in just a little after eleven. Sam had spent the ride lost in his book, the challenge of translating the ancient words pulling him in the way it always did.

He started a little when Dean parked. Sam looked up from his book, blinking owlishly at his brother.

"Berryville already?" Sam asked, shifting his sore shoulder a little. Funny how it seemed to hurt more being cramped in the car than it had while he'd been jogging. Perhaps Dean was right and he'd jostled it to much earlier.

Still, the ride had seemed to soothe his frazzled nerves a little.

"Welcome to Berryville, the luckiest place in Colorado." Dean said with a sarcastic smile. They climbed out, stretching their legs.

Sam glanced up and down the quiet street. Berryville was quiet, with a spare handful of pedestrians, window shopping or coming out of one of the various small restaurants housed on what appeared to be Berryville's main drag. Berryville was on the shores of Lake Auburn, and Sam could smell the water whenever the wind shifted in the right direction.

Resolutely, he pushed down his memories of Lake Manitoc.

"Well, it doesn't look like a den of witchcraft and iniquity." Sam said, suddenly unsure about the legitimacy of the case after all.

"Appearances can be deceiving." Dean said, coming around to stand next to Sam on the sidewalk. The rain had mostly stopped, now it was more like a gently falling mist, like they'd driven into a cloud.

"This place, for instance," Dean said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb at the Chinese restaurant behind them, "Looks like a hole in the wall. I bet the hot braised pork is amazing, though."

Dean grinned at Sam and Sam shook his head in mild disbelief. "Dude, we just ate, like two hours ago."

Dean made a hurt face, "Hey, man. I'm a growing boy."

Sam raised a brow. "Well, growing outward, maybe..."

He danced back half a step with a small grin when Dean pretended to take a swipe at him. "Don't blame the messenger."

"Bitch." Dean's grin widened, but Sam's faltered for a minute before he forced it back.

"Jerk." He mumbled, not making eye contact as he looked over at the restaurant instead.

"Wong Foo's. Well, the name's certainly original at least." He remarked mildly, intentionally not meeting his brother's eyes.

Dean had a habit of making Sam forget the bad stuff, the memories and the shame, which was great while it lasted, but then Sam's secrets would come rushing back at him like a shark-filled tidal wave and suddenly Sam would be drowning all over again.

In honesty, sometimes he felt like he'd never escaped from Lake Manitoc at all.

On his best days, he was just treading water.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean studied his brother as discreetly as he could while pretending to study the menu. Sam's color was better these past few weeks, and he didn't look quite so tired.

Sam was the only person Dean had ever met who seemed to be soothed by the monotony of school and classwork.

He was still to thin, but he seemed to eat whenever he was reminded too, which wasn't really anything new for him, so Dean wouldn't stress too much about it.

Dean hoped Caroline would be good for them, though it still rankled that John wasn't telling him what was going on.

On the plus side, it gave him more time to try and get Sam back on his feet. The kid had had a rough few weeks, and Dean was ready for things to settle down, at least as much as it ever did for a hunter.

Life was always dangerous for a hunter, but lately things had just been ridiculous. Sam had spent more time in the process of nearly getting killed then he's spent in school

"See something you like?" Sam remarked mildly, and Dean made a face.

"Can't decide between the hot braised pork or the general's chicken." He said, hoping to distract his brother.

Sam looked up. "You want me to order one, then you can have some of mine?" He offered, brows raised.

Dean frowned. "You don't even like either of those, Sam. You always get things with mushrooms and broccoli and stuff."

Sam shrugged. "It's not like I'm paying for it anyway. You're paying, you may as well get what you want."

Dean scowled. "Shut up about that shit, already, Sam. You're sixteen. You're not supposed to buy your own food."

"You did. For both of us, all the time." Sam pointed out quietly.

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again. "That was different." He said finally.

Sam cocked his head at his brother but didn't say a word, an unreadable expression on his face.

The waiter came up then. "Welcome to Wong Foo's, best Chinese restaurant in Berryville, luckiest town in Colorado, say so in paper, see!" He handed a copy of the Berryville Gazette to Sam, who smiled at him weakly.

"Thanks." Sam said, placing the folded newspaper beside his plate.

"General's chicken, Beef with broccoli, and an order of pork fried rice. Oh, and some egg rolls." Dean said quickly, heading off Sammy before his kid could take his martyr movement any further.

Sam glanced over at him but remained silent.

The waiter wrote his order down and left, muttering to himself in Chinese.

"So, how's school?' Dean asked, honestly curious.

Once upon a time Sam would have loved nothing more than to be asked about school, would have happily spent hours talking about classes and books and the papers he was going to write.

Recently, though, Sam had stopped talking, about school or pretty much anything else.

"Huh?" Sam asked, glancing up from where he'd started perusing the paper. He frowned. "Hey, what's that sound?"

"What sound?" Dean asked in confusion. The lunch rush hadn't hit yet, and the resturant was actually still pretty quiet.

"That...I don't know. That humming? Kind of, like, buzzing noise? Sam asked, rubbing his temple just a little.

"No. The lights maybe?" Dean said, glancing up,the restaurants lights were all the old fashioned kind, with regular,sixty watt bulbs screwed into them.

"Nah." SAm shook his head. "It's not the lights. I checked when I first came in. You really don't hear anything?"

Dean frowned. "You okay? You look like your heads starting to hurt."

"Just that sound, whatever the hell it is. It's not life threatening or anything. Just annoying." Sam muttered.

"If your sure." Dean said uncertainly. "Well, how about school then?"

Sam looked at him, distracted.

"Oh, um. Good. It's good, I mean, it's just school, right?" Sam replied, face buried in the newspaper again as he tried to take his mind off the ringing in his ears. He felt like a miniture wasp had flown in his ear canal and was now making it's discontent known.

He'd noticed it as soon as they'd come in, but dismissed in as some kind of white noise caused by some older electronic.

Now he just wished that whatever it was that was buzzing would stop already.

"Dude, you love school!" Dean said indignantly.

Sam ignored his comment, folding back the newspaper awkwardly with one hand. "Look. Another lotto winner, just this morning. That makes four in two weeks."

"Told you, Berryville lucky town. And Wong Foo's is most lucky restaurant. All big ticket winners big Wong Foo's customers!" Their waiter said, setting down their food with a flourish.

Dean raised a brow. "Sure, and it has nothing to do with you being the only Chinese restaurant in town, right?"

"Of course not!" Their waiter cried indignantly, and Sam glanced warningly over at his brother.

The waiter, whom Dean was beginning to suspect was none other than 'Wong Foo' himself, leaned over, whispering conspiratorially.

"It lucky fountain!" He said, pointing towards the three foot wide fountain in the restaurant's tiny entry way.

"Riigghhttt." Dean said, nodding and making meaningful eye contact with Sam.

"Thanks...for the tip." Sam said, coughing a little to clear his throat.

"Make a wish." The man said, winking over exaggeratedly. "You'll see. Good things come to Wong Foo's customers. Just look there!" He pointed at another pair of customer's across the restaurant. The woman, a pretty brunette, was laughing adoringly at the bespectacled man in front of her as she fed him noodles.

"They meet, right here, just three weeks ago. Now they engaged."

The waiter walked away with a self-satisfied expression as Dean studied the couple.

"Huh." Dean said musingly. "Talk about a ten and a two."

Sam wasn't paying attention once again, though this time he, too, was watching the customers at yet another table.

Three women were sitting at the table, and the one directly across from Sam was talking loudly, gesturing with loud, sweeping hand gestures.

"I'm telling you, Tracy, I was attacked. I'm lucky to be alive. I've always known I was sensitive, my Aunt Margery was too, you know, but I never thought I'd be attacked by a ghost in the womens locker room." She said.

Dean's head swiveled towards Sam like a hunting dog who'd caught a scent.

"She just say what I think she said?" He asked with a wolfish grin.

"The part about the ghost or the part about it being the womens locker room?" Sam asked, looking less than impressed with his brother's intentions.

"Sammy! You know as well as I do that a hunter has to be willing to go where the case leads him!" Dean waggled his eyebrows and Sam just shook his head.

"Well then, Officer Tyler, you'd better go interview her, then." Sam said, gesturing magnanimously.

Dean smiled at first, getting a kick out of the thought of getting to use one of his fake ID's, but then he frowned.

"What about you?" He asked Sam.

Sam shrugged again. "I can't exactly pass for a cop. I can, however, pass for a high school student doing a paper on urban legends. I'll go interview that hunter who says he saw Big Foot."

Dean frowned again. "I don't know man. Lately, things seem to go south whenever we split up."

Sam looked at him oddly. "There's two of us, and two leads, Dean. This is what we do."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Well, yeah but usually we do it together."

"I'm not a kid anymore, Dean. You and Dad were splitting up to follow leads on the same cases when you were sixteen. Hell, I was probably in more danger back in the libraries of some of those towns you guys left me in." Sam said, suddenly remembering, two years back, when he'd met the Kitsune, Amy.

Dean gave his brother a strange look. "What do you mean?" He asked.

Sam bit his lip, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

Dean and John didn't know about Amy, about how she'd saved Sam, at the expense of her own mother's life.

He didn't know that guilt and confusion over being saved by a monster had suddenly made it so much harder to act like the hunter that Dean and John had wanted him to be.

Dean didn't know that it was Sam's hurt and anxiety and confusion over Amy and her actions, and the way they had cast dubious aspersions over his family's entire existence that had led Sam to run away to Flagstaff that same winter. Dean had never spoken a word about Flagstaff, choosing to act like it had never happened, and Sam had never had to guts to bring it up to him.

And now, Sam had his way, they never would.

Sam was an expert at keeping monstrous secrets, after all.

"Nothing. Some of those librarians were psycho, that's all." He said easily.

He could tell Dean didn't believe him, but thankfully, he didn't press the issue.

"You got your phone, right?" Dean said instead.

Sam held it up for Dean to see with his own eyes. Dean nodded.

"Okay. Call me in an hour, or I'm coming in, guns blazing." Dean ordered.

"Sure." Sam replied, lowering his eyes so Dean couldn't see the expression in them as Sam thought about the gun in the ankle holster John had ordered him to start carrying the same day they reached Caroline.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Dean scowled in frustration as he shook his homemade EMF reader, but the needle stubbornly refused to move.

He'd checked every inch of locker room, the showers, the sauna and even walked along the pool deck.

Nothing. Nil. Nada.

Zilch.

The woman's locker room at the Berryville Country Club was the least haunted place Dean had possibly ever been in his entire life.

Seriously, he'd been in Subway's more haunted.

What was worse, the country club was closed for seasonal cleaning, and the locker room was completely empty.

Walking through once more for good measure, he hoped Sam was having more luck.

Pulling out his phone to check the time, his saw that he'd had a text message come in from Sam.

"_Went to check out scene of crime_." The first line read. The second line made even less sense.

"_What kind of bear drinks light beer?_"

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me." Dean swore, clenching his free hand as he imagined shaking some sense into his reckless little brother.

He should have stuck with the lo-jack idea after all.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Hi Everyone. Once again I have to apologize for such a short chapter, but my mom actually had a mild heart attack last night and I spent most of the day with her at the hospital. I'm off work this weekend, and the intention is to make some serious headway with all my stories, so please just bear with me. **

**Also, my angsty story ended up with a chapter that reads a bit more like a comedy than is probably appropriate for this story, but what can I say, the Winchester boys have minds (and mouths) of their own.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox. My sandbox is shaped like a giant green turtle.**

**Prisoner of War – Chapter Nineteen**

"**Comedy of Terrors"**

Sam studied the grizzled old hunter with a skeptical eye. Dean may have been right about this case after all. First the kooky waiter at the Chinese restaurant talking about the lucky fountain, and now the hunter that Dean had accused of being a drunk actually was a drunk. Sam could detect the tell tale odor of whiskey from where he was standing as he talked to the man.

"Don't know how many times I have to tell you fools. Weren't no big foot I saw up on Crosshatch Road. Were a bear, told the Sheriff so myself, for all the good it did me." The grumbling man continued with his work as Sam tried his best to question him.

The man didn't seem to mind talking, but he certainly wasn't making much sense.

Sam tried not to frown. "In the news article I read, they reported that you claimed that the bear...talked?"

"Sure sounded like talking..." The man muttered as he continued packing his gear up in the bed of his pick up truck.

"Not that he made a lot of sense..." He added.

Sam couldn't help but frown this time. "Umm...he?"

"Sure as hell sounded like a man. Talked like a woman, but sounded like a man. A drunk one, too, at that." Gary Jessop looked Sam straight in the eye.

"He was muttering about socialism and the decay of American values and something about an existential crisis of faith." He finished.

Sam blinked, nonplussed. "I...hadn't figured Big Foot for being so...political." He said finally, feeling completely out of his league.

How drunk had this man been?

And what kind of drunk had delusions that were obviously more intelligent than he was?

"Weren't no big foot." Gary insisted stubbornly.

"IT WAS A BEAR." He added again in a more frustrated voice.

"Okay, okay!" Sam said soothingly, stepping back half a step, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "What kind of bear? Grizzly, brown, black...kodiak?" Sam was reaching now, but he was running out of ideas.

"Well...'bout that." Gary scratched his head, looking suddenly embarrassed. "Best I reckon, it were a Teddy."

"A...teddy." Sam repeated stoically.

Gary nodded. "My girl had one just like it when she were little, though Shelia's was normal sized, 'bout the size of a rabbit. And it didn't drink no light beer."

"Light beer? You were hunting, and you ran across a giant, walking, talking teddy bear...drinking light beer?" Sam was incredibly glad Dean wasn't with him at that moment, because this was...something else.

"Hadn't got to the hunting part, really." Gary offered. "Was just leaving the Snack & Go, up on Crosshatch. The owner, Marty, was complaining about his new help stealing a couple of cases of beer, but I reckon he was just too embarrassed to admit he sold it to a Teddy Bear. Bear probably didn't have I.D."

"That...is a very common problem with bears nowadays..." Sam said wisely, internally threatening himself with every dire consequence he could think of to keep from laughing.

Must...be...professional...

"Go see for yourself..." Gary said sourly. "Just saw Marty a few hours ago, complaining about some more vandalism at his place last night. Damn bear's probably up there drunker than a skunk."

Sam nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Jessop. I think that's exactly what I'll do."

Gary got into his truck, and Sam turned to walk down the sidewalk. He debated whether or not he should really go up to Crosshatch Road, but the alternative was going back and meeting up with Dean empty handed.

Hooking a right at the next corner, the way Gary had explained, he pulled Dean's jacket a little tighter around his bad shoulder as he headed towards the far edge of town.

He pulled out his cell phone as he walked, shooting off two quick messages one handed to his brother.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean approached the Snack and Go at the end of Crosshatch Road cautiously, weapon drawn. From where he was, he could already see several broken windows as well as the shattered door.

What the hell had Sammy stumbled into now? It was like he had a knack for trouble.

As he came closer to the ruined storefront, he heard a rustle from within. Reacting instinctively, he ducked behind a tree, pulling his weapon.

Suddenly a hand clamped over his mouth and he stiffened before relaxing almost immediately.

Sam.

Sam removed his hand and leaned forward, whispering directly into his brother's ear.

"Whoever they are, they were here when I got here. They haven't come out yet."

Dean looked over at Sam. "Did you call the cops?" He mouthed. It looked like a straightforward b & e to him.

Sam gave him a funny look, shaking his head. He moved quickly around his brother, sliding toward the store at a half-crouch.

"Sam!" Dean hissed, before crouching down himself to run behind his little brother.

That was when he noticed Sam was carrying a weapon in his good hand, and in his surprise he nearly tripped over his on feet.

When had Sam started carrying a hand gun regularly? Did Dad know?

Had John given Sam a weapon of his own, a permanent one, like he had with Dean and never even told Dean about it?

The half-second's delay was all Sam's long legs needed to distance himself ahead of his brother and he reached the storefront while Dean was still processing the fact that Sam was armed, had, apparently, been armed this entire time and Dean hadn't realized it.

Sam peaked over the window sill of one of the broken windows, and Dean saw him stiffen in surprise, face going slack as his mouthed opened in a silent "o".

Alarmed, Dean hurried over to his little brother, peering carefully over the ledge also.

Almost immediately, his own brows raised in shock.

The inside of the convenience store was even worse than the outside, with shelves tipped over and food spilling across the aisles.

The lights were mostly out, and in the dimness, Dean could barely make out the shape of a young girl at the counter.

Her forehead was lined in concentration as she painstakingly counted out change from what appeared to be a piggy bank she had set out on the counter.

Almost as one, the brothers turned and sat down on the ground in surprise, backs flush against the outside wall of the store.

"I thought you said it was Big Foot!" Dean hissed.

"I never said it was Big Foot. You and Dad said it was Big Foot. I said it was a talking bear!" Sam hissed back.

"That doesn't look like a talking bear!" Dean replied, taking another peak over the window ledge. "Christ, is she buying beer?"

"Light beer." Sam confirmed, glancing at his brother.

"What is she, eight? Is this entire town full of gamblers and alcoholics?" Dean asked incredulously.

Just then they heard the quiet sound of tiny steps coming towards the front door, and they scrambled around the corner just as the little girl came blinking outside.

She lugged the six pack of light beer, the weight nearly overbalancing her small frame. The brothers watched as she wrangled the cans into the basket of the little pink bike she had pulled upright from the scraggly weeds at the end of the sidewalk.

She climbed on, weight shifting precariously as she adjusted her balance to account for her load, before she started pedaling slowly down the street.

"Follow her!" Sam said, running quickly to a group of trees that his his tall frame as he watched her pedal down the road.

"Creepy, much?" Dean asked, coming to stand behind him.

"Dean, where are her parents? Where's the shop owner? Where are the police? Something crazy's going on in this town." Sam said, never taking his eyes of the tiny figure in the distance.

He started moving again, and Dean had no choice to follow.

The girl stopped only a few blocks away at a tidy, two story white house. She let her bike fall to the ground haphazardly as she lugged the six pack up the stairs of the front porch, letting herself in with a slam of the door.

Dean studied the house, looking for any other signs of activity.

"Where are her parents?" He asked indignantly.

"Maybe they won the lottery." Sam muttered, crossing the street with Dean right behind him,

Sam rang the bell before Dean could stop him, though he glared daggers at his younger brother's head as they waited to see who answered the door.

Only a few moments later, the same little girl answered the door.

"Can I help you?" She asked with a fearless curiosity.

"Are your parents home-" Dean had barely gotten the words out before Sam had slammed his foot on Dean's boot.

Dean hissed in pain, turning to glare at him. Ignoring his older brother's glare (again), Sam said the most ridiculous thing Dean had ever hear.

"We're here to see Teddy."

The little girls eyes opened wide.

"Are you guys the Teddy Bear doctors?" She asked hopefully.

Dean turned wide eyes on his brother. "I don't know, Sammy. Are we Teddy Bear doctors?" He said with a forced smile.

Sam smiled a strained smile right back at him.

"We are on the weekends." He replied.

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Sam had thought that nothing short of Dean's imminent death would ever be enough for him to willingly want to call John Winchester in to help him on a case.

He was wrong.

As he and his brother stood in the doorway of the little girl's bedroom, Sam's mind tried to reconcile what he was seeing with every possible fact and figure he'd ever read, ever seen, ever even heard spoken.

Anything that would make the sight of an eight foot high, walking, talking, crying (drunken) Teddy Bear make some kind of sense.

He failed.

In that moment, Sam felt spectacularly under-trained, under-prepared, under-_something_, anyway.

Dean slammed the door shut once again, and the brothers leaned against it, breathing hard.

"We should call Dad." Sam said, wide eyes turning to face his brother.

Dean continued to stare straight ahead, but he shook his head nonetheless.

"We should never tell Dad about this. Ever." He contradicted.

"Are we..." Sam swallowed.

"Dean, are we going to shoot the teddy bear?" He whispered in a horrified voice.

Dean turned appalled eyes to him. "We...should." He said finally. "I think."

Sam shook his head. "I don't want to shoot a Teddy Bear."

Dean nodded. "We should call Dad."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I just said that. So call him."

Dean's eyes bugged out even wider. "No way, man. You call him!"

"He told me to drop the Big Foot case!" Sam argued, shaking his head.

Dean chewed his lip before holding out his fist and his palm decisively.

Sam arched a brow. "If it makes you feel better." He murmured, knowing that no matter what happened, Sam always won. Even if Sam were trying to lose, he'd still win.

It was just one of those things, and they both knew it, but his stubborn older brother never relented.

They counted to three in unison, Sam's paper trumping Dean's rock, and Dean turned away, cursing.

Pulling out his cell phone, Dean punched in some numbers, but he hesitated before hitting the call button.

He looked over at Sam.

"We should have gone shopping." He muttered piteously, but Sam just shooed him on with an impatient hand gesture.

Dean made a face before turning away before holding the phone up to his ear.

A moment later, the other end was picked up.

"Bobby! Hey, it's Dean, listen, me and Sam got a little...dilemma. What do you know about...Teddy Bears?


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: And once again, sorry for the short chapter, but I am spending a lot of time at the hospital and I doubt it will change anytime soon. Reviews are love, and to be honest, this week I could use it. Thanks for reading.**

**As Always, **

_**Ever Reader**_

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, I know better than to use the evil magic-luck coin of doom.**

**Prisoner of War – Chapter Twenty**

"**Wishes Gone Wild"**

"The hell you say?" Bobby's incredulous voice came over the phone so loudly Dean had to pull it away for a moment.

"Uh, yeah. Teddy Bears? BIG ones?" He repeated, glancing over at Sam, who just shrugged again.

"Well, Dean, I'll admit, it's been a while since I've gone up against a rogue childrens toy. Have you tried calling the experts at F.A.O. Schwartz?" Bobby replied sarcastically.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Bobby, I'm serious, here. Giant, walking, talking Teddy Bear, drunk on Natural Light. Do we shoot it? Exorcise It? Bury it in a super-sized toy box? I'm at a loss here Bobby."

"Then we're in the same boat, Dean, cause I've been lost since the conversation started. You say it's drinking light beer?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, but I already through some salt on it. Not a demon." Dean answered.

"What the hell kind of self respecting monster drinks light beer..." Dean could hear Bobby muttering over the phone.

"Bobby!" Dean said loudly, trying to get the older hunter to refocus.

"Well, Dean, I don't know what to tell you. Plenty of things could animate a toy, but you're talking like it's really alive, with a personality and such. That's just not as common." Bobby answered, floundering.

"Don't forget the eight foot high part." Dean added.

"Oh, trust me. It's blazoned across my mind, ya idjit. Look, I'm gonna have to hit the books and call you back. Start questioning witnesses, call me back with what you find, so I can start narrowing down the search" Bobby ordered. "Where's John, anyway?"

"Not here." Dean answered quickly, and Bobby was silent for a moment.

"I see." Bobby answered finally.

"What do we do about it in the meantime?" Sam asked into the phone from where he was standing next to Dean.

"Shut the door." Bobby suggested, hanging up on Dean.

The boys at each other in consternation.

"So...is the Teddy Bear a witness?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head decisively. "Nah, he's...drunk."

Sam nodded slowly. "Right. Drunk Teddy, not a credible witness. That just leaves the little girl."

Dean grimaced. "Awesome."

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Sam knelt before the little girl. She was wearing mismatched clothes, her hair was in a snaggle, and she had a smudge of dirt under one eye.

"What's your name?" He asked gently.

She looked at him wryly.

"Annabelle. What's yours?"

Sam smiled a little. "I'm Sam. Can you tell me about Teddy?"

She climbed onto the dinner table, sitting down cross-legged right in the middle, and Sam realized with amusement she was trying to make up for the height disparity between them.

"He's supposed to be fun." She complained. "He's supposed to pick flowers with me, and come to my tea parties, and watch Disney movies with me. But instead all he does is drink that natural stuff, look at the magazines my daddy hid under the sink, and cry while he watches the news. And he smells bad."

"Huh. Hey, uh, Annabelle, where are your parents, anyway?" Sam asked, glancing up at Dean.

"Fiji, I think." She replied with a shrug.

"I beg your pardon?" Sam replied in surprise. "They went to Fiji and left you with...Teddy?"

"I don't think they meant to. They wished to go to Fiji, wherever that was, and then they were just gone." She answered.

"What do you mean, they wished?" Dean interjected.

She looked over at the older brother. "Just like I wished for my Teddy to be real, and he was. Mom laughed and said she wished they were on a beach in Fiji and POOF" She made big exclamation marks with her hands. "They were gone."

"Wishes? What do you mean, they made a wish? Just, standing in the kitchen talking or were they somewhere special? What exactly did they do?" Dean asked.

Annabelle looked at him like he was a moron. "How do you make wishes? You throw a coin in the lucky fountain."

"Oh, crap." Sam muttered, thinking back to the strange noises he had heard back at the Chinese restaurant, and the strange, nagging headache that had grown in strength the longer they had lingered here.

"Sam?" Dean asked expectantly.

Sam looked over. "Wong Foo's 'lucky fountain'. The guy even said all the lotto winners were customers."

"Damn." Dean said, shaking his head. "I should have made a wish. Pamela Anderson and a can of whipped cream."

"Probably better you didn't" Sam murmured, standing up.

"I have a feeling, if Teddy's any example, that the wishes go bad. Annabelle's parent couldn't have intentionally wished to disappear and leave her alone. They're probably stranded right now in a foreign country without passports and money with no way to get back to their kid."

"Great. Who knows how many wishes have been made." Dean muttered.

"Or why the cheesy fountain is even working in the first place." Sam added.

Looking back over at Annabelle, he said "Annabelle, Teddy is sick, and it's gonna be a few days before he's better. In the meantime, is there somewhere you can go and stay until your parents are back?"

"Mrs. James down the street watches me sometimes." She offered.

"Good." Dean said. "Can you pack an overnight bag and go there for a few nights, just until Teddy is better?"

She shrugged. "Sure. We were out of Lucky Charms anyway."

They boys climbed back into the Impala, and looked at each other helplessly for a moment.

"Well..." Dean started, "I guess we need to go back and try the fountain, make sure that really is the source of the wishes."

"Yeah." Sam said musingly, thinking about his discomfort at the restaurant. Had he been picking up on some kind a magical interference and not even realized it?

Was his freaky psychic thing...growing?

Dean started the Impala, as Sam continued to think about the fountain.

What could make wishes start coming true? The fountain had only recently become lucky, or the Winchesters would have been here much sooner.

Were the wishes really a bad thing? Certainly they could be a dangerous thing, but had someone done this to cause trouble, or simply not realized how far south this could go? And how had they triggered it in the first place?

Sam glanced up just as Dean navigated a tight corner, and a strange, shifting shimmer in the road caught his eye.

Suddenly, his stomach dropped as a surge of forewarning flooded his system.

"Dean, BRAKE!" He yelled, as he felt something warm run down his chin.

Dean slammed on the brakes, the Impala sliding to a stop only a few inches from the shifting shape that Sam had somehow seen without actually seeing.

Suddenly, in the middle on the road, a puddle appeared, growing larger as the brothers watched.

Dean's eyes bugged out as his quick mind put together his earlier investigation at the health club with the evidence currently in front of him.

"Best wish ever." He muttered, leaning back in surprise as a naked boy, approximately fourteen or so, suddenly appeared, standing wide eyed in front of the grill of the car.

"Sam, you-hey, man, your nose is bleeding!"

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Dean looked at Sam in concern, trying to understand why Sam's nose was suddenly bleeding. Sam was wiping at his chin ineffectually, and Dean fished a bandana out of his pocket without thinking.

"Here." He said, guiding Sam's hand to his nose with the bandana. "Lean forward, not back." He instructed automatically.

"I know." Sam said in a muffled voice.

"Did you hit your face?" Dean asked in confusion, trying to see what Sam could have hit his nose on.

Had Sam flown into the dash when Dean braked?

"Something like that." Sam mumbled.

"Damn, I need to replace the seat belt then." Dean said, leaning forward and down to check out the rest of Sam's face. "I guess we have been brake-checking an awful lot lately." He said thoughtfully.

"Dean." Sam said, nodding at the naked teen who had started edging to the side of the road, eyes still the size of saucers.

Dean opened the door, standing up at yelling at the boy. "Hey, Wong Foo's, right?" He hollered.

The kid nodded mutely.

"Awesome idea on paper, less awesome on the road. Stay away from the womens locker room, or next time I won't stop." Dean lectured, before climbing back in to check on Sam again.

Sam had gotten the bleeding under control, though now he was trying to clean up Dean's jacket.

"Sorry." He said sheepishly.

"Not the first time, kiddo." Dean murmured as he gave an experimental yank on the shoulder belt.

"Damn, you have the worst luck, Sam. It's working fine now. Maybe you should make a wish. How'd you even see him, anyway?"

"I saw...his shadow." Sam lied quickly.

Dean gave him a measuring look. "Huh. Lucky for the kid, then. Let's get over to the restaurant."

He started the car again and within a few moments, they'd once again reached downtown Berryville.

They stood in the restaurant's foyer, looking down at the least lucky-looking fountain they had ever seen.

Dean had flashed a health inspector badge at the indignant waiter, and now a closed sign hung on the restaurant's door.

"Sure don't look lucky." Dean said, reaching in his pocket for a quarter. "Well, let's give her a shot."

He flipped the quarter up into the air, the coin somersaulting over and over like a pinwheel as it began it's descent.

Suddenly Sam's fist shot out, grabbing the coin out of mid-air.

"Sam?" Dean asked questioningly.

"It's not the fountain." Sam said, eyes narrowed as he knelt down beside it. "It's in the fountain."

"You mean, one of those coins?" Dean asked, catching his drift.

"Yeah...I think...look at this one. It's not American." Sam reached into the water, reaching for the slightly misshapen piece of Bronze colored metal. "It looks old."

As Sam's fingers brushed he coin, however, his body jolted like he'd been shocked.

He pitched forward and would have tumbled head first into the water if Dean hadn't caught him and yanked him back.

His eyes fluttered closed and he jerked in Dean's arms for a few seconds before going still.

"SAM?" Dean yelled, but Sam didn't respond.

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That the vision itself happened didn't particularly surprise Sam at this point, though this one was supercharged, and it _hurt_.

Pictures flashed across his mind, far to fast for him to even begin to understand most of them. The coin was definitely old, though, that he gathered.

The pictures were a time line, of sorts.

He caught glimpses of some men dressed in what appeared to be a tribal fashion, in a stone temple.

Then came the wars, battle after battle. This coin had a bloody history, Sam now knew the wishes definitely went bad.

Finally, the flashes started slowing, the very last one just a split second view of a man wearing glasses, and he was familiar, where had he seen him before-

"SAM!" His eyes flew open as Dean literally shouted his name in his ear.

"Ow." He mumbled as Dean helped him up. He flexed his fingers without thinking, they tingled, like he'd been shocked or burned.

"What the hell was that?" Dean said frantically.

"Evil wish coin?" Sam offered, rubbing his pounding head.

"Ow." He repeated for good measure.

"But what happened?" Dean asked insistently.

Sam frowned. "That thing's locked and loaded. Seriously, armed and dangerous." He wasn't sure if Dean would see what he had, but since his head now felt like a herd of elephants was stampeding through it, it was better not to chance it.

"Okay. No touching evil magic coin. Did you...what..have a vision?" Dean asked haltingly.

"Maybe?" Sam admitted. "It was like it showed me it's whole life story, all at once. It was mostly a blur." He was careful to word it like it was the coin that caused the vision, and not something about Sam himself.

"Shit. How to get it out?" Dean asked musingly.

"Drain the pool." Sam suggested, and in the back ground the waiter wailed about lost income and the dinner rush.

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"And it shocked the hell out of your brother, and then it gave him a vision?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, looked like the kid was being freaking electrocuted or something, Bobby. I'm about sick of this sick. How do I pull the plug on this thing?" Dean asked in an aggrieved voice.

"I'm on it." Bobby said, hanging up.

Sam had already started draining the pool, and as the water level dropped, the image on the coin became clearer.

"Incan?" Dean guessed.

"I think it's Mayan. Dean, this thing has started wars. Right now it's all vacations and Teddy Bears, but soon people are going to be wishes for their lovers to leave their spouses, for raises that should have gone to co-workers. How long until people start using this thing to off their enemies?" Sam said concernedly.

"Hey, man. We'll stop it. It's what we do, right?" Dean said reassuringly.

Sam looked over at him. "You do know, one day we won't be able to stop something in time, right? No one gets lucky forever."

Dean frowned. "The question is, who got lucky first."

"Huh?" Sam asked as he rubbed his temple.

"Who got lucky first? Who started this mess?" Dean asked.

Sam's eyes widened in understanding.

"The two." He exclaimed

"Huh?" This time it was Dean's turn to be confused.

"The ten and the two." Sam repeated. "They were having lunch here, remember? They announced their engagement just a few weeks back."

"Oh wow, that is seriously sick." Dean said, making a disgusted face. "I freaking hate love spells."

"Where's that paper?" Sam asked, and Dean handed it to him.

"Emmett Kowiski and Hope Danvers announce their engagement." Sam read aloud, showing Dean the picture.

The couple were photographed sitting on a couch in what appeared to be a living room.

On the back wall, in several large frames, was what appeared to be a coin collection.

"Awesome." Dean said.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Yay, next chapter of Prisoner of War! So, my Mom is doing good and they are finally moving her out of ICU. My laptop is once again being stupid, but I will do my best to update anyway. At the very least, I can write on my tablet and then email my bestie and perhaps upload from her computer Saturday night.**

**So, this chapter is much darker, sort of a throwback to the original feeling of this story, which makes me happy, as this story has a tendency to wander. One of my personal favorite episodes, Scarecrow, is next on the hit list, and I am looking forward to it. **

**So, if you are following my AU, All The Pretty Monsters, I have created a forum for it, as there are a few ideas I want to Beta test against some readers who don't mind spoilers, if you check out the most recent chapter of that story, the link is at the top of the chapter. Also, if you are following or interested in following my newest baby, Tuesday's Child, the second chapter went up yesterday, and I am loving it so far.**

**Reviews are love, dear ones!**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine...**

**Prisoner of War – Chapter Twenty One**

"**Tainted Love"**

Emmett Kowiski lived in a small one bedroom bungalow only a few blocks from the Chinese restaurant. The brother's rang the bell and almost immediately it was opened by Hope, with a slightly manic smile on her face.

"Can I help you?" She asked, looking from one boy to the other.

"Emmett called us." Sam began haltingly, glancing over at Dean.

Dean, still a little miffed over the whole 'Teddy Bear Doctors' thing, waved him on, obviously not planning on jumping in any time soon.

Sam smiled tightly at him, then he turned a blinding smile on Hope. "We're wedding planners."

Two things happened simultaneously. Hope's eyes lit up like a little kid on Christmas morning, and Dean's jaw dropped so far it nearly hit the floor.

"Emmett called wedding planners? That is so considerate of him, but he really is the sweetest, most considerate man on the whole planet!" She squealed as Sam studiously ignored Dean's death glare.

"Come in! Emmett, you naughty boy, you should have told me!" She cried as she led them into a tiny living room.

Emmett had obviously been sleeping in the easy chair, and he blinked at them in confusion.

"Wedding Planners?" He asked tentatively, looking at the Winchesters doubtfully.

"Hope, do you have any ideas to share? Any magazines or anything?" Sam said, trying to remember what he'd seen on the cheesy wedding movies.

She clapped her hands again. "I've been meaning to, I just haven't had the time."

"That's okay, we have plenty of time, if you want to just run out and get a few, we'll start by getting to know Emmett." Dean offered, and Hope squealed again, as both Winchesters winced.

"I'll be right back!" She cried, dashing out of the room. In record time, Sam heard her car's engine start.

They looked back at Emmett, who was looking at them apprehensively.

"You guys aren't wedding planners." He said accusingly.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean studied the nerdy looking man in front of him with distaste. In his opinion, love spells were about the lowest thing you could do to someone. If you had a beef with them, you killed them outright.

Love spells, or anything that took away another person's free will was just another form of rape, in his view.

"Damn Skippy we're not." He snarled. "We're here to clean up the mess you made with that stupid magic coin."

Emmett swallowed, going pale, but he shook his head resolutely. "I don't know what you're talking about." He claimed.

Dean cracked his knuckles. "Well, buddy, I gotta say, for your sake, I hope you remember fast."

If possible, Emmett went even paler, but he simply pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"You're destroying her, you know that, right?" Sam said suddenly, in a matter of fact voice that somehow managed to cut through the room like a knife.

Sam continued on. "You did all this, I'm guessing because you're in love with her. Pretty girl, nerdy guy like you, I bet she didn't even know your name. So you made a wish, and now you have what you always wanted. Except you don't, not really, and I bet you realize it a little more everyday."

"You're crazy!" Emmett sputtered indignantly, as Dean watched his little brother, who was apparently on a roll.

"Every day, you see her acting a little less like herself, a little more like what she thinks you want her to be. And at first, it's awesome, it's everything you thought you wanted. But then you find yourself missing the little things that made her the person you fell in love with in the first place. So you try to encourage her to be that person again, but the problem with love spells is that everything the victim does, they do for the other person. It's not love, it's slavery. She's a prisoner and she doesn't even know it, but you do, and if you really care about her at all, it's killing you. Because what you've done is killing her." Sam finished in the same conversational voice he'd began in, as if he were reading the weather, and Dean and Emmett were left simply staring at him.

Sam shrugged. "Love's not suppose to destroy, Emmett. It's supposed to protect."

Emmett was shaking his head. "You don't get it, you're what, seventeen? What the hell do you know about love?"

Sam raised a brow. "I know you don't buy it at a Chinese restaurant. I know love is supposed to mean putting the other person first. And I know that whatever that coin did, it didn't make her actually love you, it just made her think she did."

"Christ, Sammy." Dean muttered uncomfortably. Dean actually agreed with everything Sam was saying, but the way Sam delivered it, like he didn't care if he destroyed the guy, sent chills down Dean's spine.

Sam looked over at him. "It's the truth. Soon, people will start dying, the wishes always go bad. How's he gonna feel when they get into a disagreement over napkin colors and she kills herself in remorse."

"You're not crazy, you're insane!" Emmett cried, standing up and moving towards Sam. Sam didn't so much as blink, but Dean was instantly a flurry of motion. Emmett found himself shoved up against the wall so fast his glasses fell askew on his face.

"Big mistake." Dean spoke with a low, menacing voice. "Did you miss the part about protecting what you care about?" He hissed.

"Who the hell are you guys?" Emmett said in a choked voice.

Dean felt Sam's hand on his arm. "Don't kill him, Dean. It's not like I couldn't put him into the hospital with one hand in a sling."

Dean looked over at him. "Not. The. Point."

Sam looked at him steadily. "Let him go."

Dean scowled and looked down as his phone started ringing.

He pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. "It's Bobby." He said to his brother.

Sam jerked his head to the front door. "Better take it outside."

Dean hesitated, but the glare Sam sent his way had him pressing his lips together even as he headed outside.

"What do you got, Bobby?" He asked, moving to stand in front of the front window so as to keep a line of sight on Sam and Emmett.

"Well, as far as I can tell, Sam's right. It's Mayan, and it's old, really old. He's also right about the bloody history. These things were created as an offering to the Mayan God of Chaos, and that's exactly what they do. The wishes start off innocuously enough, but soon, crops are failing and brothers are killing brothers, the whole nine yards. Scholars think a coin like that might have been responsible for the Trojan War, Dean. We have to pull the plug on that thing now." Bobby said worriedly.

Dean scowled. "And just how the hell are we supposed to do that if we can't even touch the damn thing?" He growled, remembering the way Sam's body had jerked unresponsively in his arms only a few hours earlier.

"You and Sam can't touch it, but whoever made the first wish, they can." Bobby supplied.

Dean grinned ferally. "Well, that is something Sam and I have been working on at our end. We found the moron, what exactly does he have to do?"

"He was to pick up the coin while wishing to undo everything, including his own wish." Bobby stated and Dean blew out a breath.

He was glad he had his gun.

He never saw the woman peeking around the corner as he hung up with Bobby.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Sam glanced into the review as his brother drove, making sure Emmett wasn't planning anything drastic, like throwing himself out of the speeding car.

They'd dragged a still protesting Emmett out at gun point, and even now, the man was wringing his hands and bemoaning his fate.

"You don't understand. I've loved Hope since I was in second grade. Ten years we went to school together, and she didn't even know my name. How else was I supposed to get her to love me?" Emmett said miserably.

"Try growing a personality." Dean muttered.

As they turned the last corner between them and Wong Foo's, a red bicycle suddenly flew across the street, nearly clipping the front of the Impala.

"Shit." Dean cursed, slamming on his brakes as he reached out instinctively to lay his hand across Sam's chest.

Sam took no note, however, as he was watching wide eyed as a little kid, about Annabelle's age, tossed another bicycle, this time over the Impala, thankfully.

A group of frightened, older looking boys were backed against the wall of the drugstore, and Sam guessed they had picked the wrong day to gang up on the little kid.

"Holy crap." Emmett breathed in surprise, and Sam looked at him wryly.

"Starting to get it?" He asked.

Emmett looked at him guiltily. "I just wanted her to love me." He whispered.

Sam looked back at him steadily. "Love hurts sometimes."

Emmett nodded, closing his eyes. "Okay. Okay, let's go."

Sam opened his door.

"Where the hell you going, Sammy?" Dean cried.

"To save those kids from being broke in half." Sam replied.

"Dude, what if he breaks you in half?" Dean said in alarm.

"Get Emmett to the coin, and we won't have to worry." Sam called, already out of the Impala.

Dean cursed again but put the car into drive, pulling away.

Sam took a deep breath, walking forward with his hands up.

"Hey, kiddo." He said, doing his best to channel the voice Dean had used on him when he was younger.

"What do you want?" The boy snarled, eyes feral and Sam swallowed. He didn't think he could shoot a little kid, but he wasn't sure how else to stop him.

The kid threw the bicycle at him and he ducked.

The group of boys took advantage of the younger kid's distraction to take off in all directions, and in fury, the youngest boy ripped up a stop sign and threw it after one of them. Taking off after the tallest of his victims, he sped away with surprising speed.

Sam moved to follow, but a searing pain shot through his head, and once again, he felt warmth trickle down his face.

His eyelids fluttered as he slumped to the sidewalk, good arm twitching a little at his side.

He came to less than a moment later, sitting upright with a shocked, surprised breath. Pushing aside his panic over the vision (another vision, two in just a few hours, what kind of monster was he?) he tried to sort through what he'd seen as he wiped blood from his chin.

Dean. It had been Dean.

And someone had shot him

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean parked in front of Wong Foo's and looked over at Emmett.

"You ready to do this?" He asked, surprised at the compassion he suddenly felt for the man.

"You mean, am I ready for the love of my life to suddenly forget that I even exist? No, of course I'm not ready." Emmett snapped.

Dean gritted his teeth, compassion quickly fleeing.

"Tough cookies." He snapped back, getting out of the car and coming around to Emmett's side.

He dragged Emmett out by his arm, pulling him towards the restaurant.

Suddenly, Hope walked out the front door.

"I can't let you do it." She said, tears streaming down her face.

"Hope, what are you doing here?" Emmett asked in alarm.

"I heard him talking on the phone. Is everything I feel fake? Are you just going to undo us, like we're some kind of mistake?" She started crying.

"Oh, Hope, honey. They're right, I shouldn't have done it." Emmett said, reaching for her.

She stepped back. "No. No, I won't let you just erase us."

Reaching behind her, she pulled out a gun. Immediately, both men froze.

"Hope!" Emmett cried in horror.

"Okay, Hope, it's okay. Let's just talk about this..." Dean said, trying to keep his tone soothing.

She sniffed and shook her head. "No, no talking. I won't let you break us up. Things were fine until you came."

She squared her shoulders, and as the sound of a shot being fired echoed of the brick buildings, Dean braced himself for a pain that never came.

Instead, it was Hope who crumpled slowly to the ground, a crimson stain spreading across her white blouse.

Emmett was already running towards her, as Dean looked around wildly.

Sam stood behind him, weapon in his hand and a frighteningly blank look on his face.

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean said, moving carefully towards his brother and taking the gun from his unresisting fingers. Sam blinked then, animation returning to his eyes. He looked at his brother.

"You okay?" He asked Dean, and Dean wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, because Sam had probably just saved his life.

Sam had just shot someone, and he was checking on Dean.

"Yeah, kiddo, what about you?" He said gently, but Sam didn't answer, instead pushing past Dean to stand next to Emmett and Hope.

Hope was bleeding badly and Dean could tell she only had a few moments left, if that. Sam had aimed true, hitting her near her heart and it was a wonder she was awake at all.

It was a testament to how screwed up the town had become that they weren't already surrounded by a crowd of bystanders and police officers, but the streets remained empty.

Emmett had knelt down beside Hope, cradling her head on his lap, and his lifted tearful, accusing eyes to Sam.

"You shot her." He sobbed, as her eyes fluttered closed.

"Yeah." Sam replied. "Like I said. The wishes always go bad." His voice sounded...empty and Dean shivered again.

"It's okay, Hope." Emmett was whispering, pushing dark hair out of her pale face. "I'm going to fix it. I'm going to fix all of it."

He looked up at Dean. "If I do what you said, Everything goes back to normal?"

Dean swallowed. "That's the theory." He said.

Emmett laid Hope's head gently down on the sidewalk and stood, seemingly oblivious to the blood.

"Let's do this." He said dully, turning to the restaurant's door.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

The Winchesters stood on the dock overlooking Lake Auburn. They'd stuck around the last few hours to double check that everything really had reverted back the way it was supposed to.

Mostly, everything had.

"What happened to your sling? Dean asked his brother.

Sam looked up, startled. "Hope shot it." He replied, staring back out over the water.

"Come again?" Dean asked, straightening from where he'd been leaning on the railing.

Sam didn't look at him again as he answered. "When I shot her, she was already pulling the trigger. I just shot first, is all. Her shot went wide, it missed you, grazed right over the top of my shoulder. Cut the top of the sling cleaner than a knife." he said noncommittally.

"Jesus, Sam, she could have hit you in the neck." Dean swore.

"Yup." Sam replied.

An awkward moment passed between them. "You know, she's okay, Sam. She didn't really die." Dean said.

"Yeah, Dean. She really did. Emmett brought her back, but I really killed her. Just cause it didn't stick didn't mean I didn't do it." Sam replied in a hard voice.

"Yeah, well, you did it to save me." Dean reasoned, heart pounding as he studied his younger brother, who suddenly seemed miles away even though Dean could reach out and touch him if he wanted to.

"Love destroys." Sam said quietly.

"That's not what you told Emmett." Dean said, taken aback at Sam's words.

"I lied." Sam said simply. "Love destroys. It's just the truth. People think love means building something, but love is just admitting your weakness. It's naming the things that can be used against you."

Dean shook his head, upset beyond measure at Sam's words. "You don't mean that. You've always believed in love."

Sam raised a brow. "I still do. I believe it exists, I'm just not foolish enough to see it for what it is. Love destroys, Dean. In the end, it always does. Look at what loving Mom did to Dad, to all of us. Bobby loved his wife, now look at him. Look at what Emmett did, and what Hope did in return. Love destroys, that's just the way it is."

"No, Sam. That's not what love is." Dean said, as cold fingers fisted in his stomach.

What the hell was Sam saying all this for?

Sam looked Dean square in the face. "It's not personal Dean, you don't have to take offense. It's just how things are. Gravity's not personal either. Love destroys."

Dean shook his head, unsure of how to respond to this new development of Sam's.

And in his head, he heard Constance's whispered words _"We destroy what we love..."_


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Okay, one of those shorter, introspective chapters, because I know everyone is dying to know what Sam is thinking. **

**So, let's see. **

**All the Pretty Monsters, How To Fix A Winchester and Tuesday's Child have all updated this week, so lots going on. **

**My Mom will be getting out of the hospital this week also, so hopefully my chapters will be a little longer from here out. **

**I have gotten some amazing prompts for How To Fix A Winchester, if you've prompted and haven't seen yours yet, I work them in order, oldest first, so just keep reading. Also, if any of you have read any of my Confessions 'Verse stories (all canon) and want to prompt for that universe, I have wanted to do prompts for that project from the get go, I just haven't gotten any yet.**

**Thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers!**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**Trigger Warnings: Suicidal thoughts in this one, read responsibly**

**Prisoner of War- Chapter Twenty-Two**

"**Things Left Behind"**

Sam never said another word about it, as far as Dean could tell.

Oh, he reported back to John honestly, almost clinically, in fact, but he never really said another word about it, _real words_, like how he was feeling, or what he was thinking.

John, surprisingly, had taken it in stride.

"Where have you boys been?" He had asked, when they returned to Caroline that night.

Dean had paused, trying to find a good way to explain that they had taken a case against his orders, dealt with a giant talking teddy bear, discovered an evil Mayan coin of doom, shot the bad guy's fiance, and were now ready for dinner.

There just had to be a better way to word all this...

Sam had just looked directly at John. "Berryville was a legit case. It was a cursed object granting wishes. When we got the original wisher to take back the first wish, all the other wishes were undone. And I killed someone, but to quote Dean, it 'didn't stick'."

"Come again?" John had said in the the closest tone to alarm he ever used.

"She was shooting at me, and Sam returned fire. It was undone when all the other wishes were. No one even remembers." Dean said hurriedly, looking over at his younger brother like Sam had just starting speaking French.

Sam had been watching John, almost as if he were waiting to see John's reaction.

John swallowed, looking between the boys. "Dean, you good?" He asked finally.

Dean swallowed. "Yeah, her shot went wide, it nearly clipped Sam though."

John nodded. "Well, Dean, go get one of the lock boxes Bobby brought us on his last trip. We better lock that object down tight."

Dean looked at John, trying to gauge if he was really mad at them and just not revealing it yet.

"Dean." John said impatiently.

"Yes, sir." Dean said, going upstairs to there storeroom.

He left his father and his brother in the living room, a thousand unspoken words between them, like the worlds most complex minefield.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam slammed his locker shut, juggling his books over to his good side. He'd refused to put a new sling on, insisting to Dean it was fine.

Dean had agreed reluctantly, and Sam got the feeling he was walking on eggshells around Sam because of Berryville, as Dean had taken to calling _the incident_.

Because of Hope.

Sam swallowed suddenly, as nausea rose up in his throat unexpectedly. He struggled to slow his breathing, pulling large breaths in through his nose and exhaling them through his gasping mouth.

It was Tuesday, and this had been happening to him on and off for three days now.

Suddenly the hall, the whole second floor, hell, the whole goddamned high school felt too small, like the walls were closing in on Sam and maybe there wasn't enough air in the whole entire world for Sam to get a deep breath in.

He still had three classes to go, but suddenly Sam knew he couldn't do it.

Quickly, he shoved his books back into his locker. Power-walking down the hall as panic clawed at his chest, he let himself out of a side door.

He broke into a run, quickly putting distance between himself and the eight hundred people his age who would never ever understand a single thing about him.

He wasn't wearing the right clothes for running, his jeans rubbed and his chest was starting to ache, but Sam didn't slow. Running was one of the few things that gave him any peace.

Images of Hope's lifeless body, interchanged with the vision of Dean's lifeless body that had struck him in Berryville flooded his mind, and suddenly he swerved off the road, walking into the tree line. Finally losing the battle to his rising nausea, he leaned over next to a tree a lost his lunch.

_I shot her I shot her Oh God,I shot her-_

Sam forced air into his screaming lungs through sheer will power, his legs were unsteady, his hands were shaking, and unwilling tears were trickling down his cheeks.

Sam managed to stumble another couple of yards farther into the treeline, now well hidden from the road. Coming to rest against a large pine tree, he slid down slowly until he was sitting with his back against the trunk.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the object that had been haunting him for three days.

It was a bullet.

It was _the_ bullet.

When Emmett had undone his wish, almost everything had returned to normal.

Annabelle's teddy bear had returned to normal size, and thankfully stopped talking, but when the boys had last seen her, the bear had had a suspicious looking bandage wrapped around it's head that Sam hadn't even wanted to think about.

Her parents were back, but her Dad had the worst case of sunburn Sam had ever seen.

Sam's sling had remained torn where it had been sheered by Hope's wild shot.

And where she had been laying, on the sidewalk in front of Wong Foo's, Sam had found his bullet.

The blond was gone, like it had never happened.

One moment, Sam had been staring down at Hope's lifeless body (_I killed her, I shot her_),

The next, the entire world had seemed to shift for one crazy moment, and then suddenly a very confused Hope Danvers had been standing on the sidewalk looking around in mild alarm.

She had looked right at Sam. "How did I get here? Do I know you?"

Sam had had to fight down the manic laughter that had nearly broke from his throat at her question, because how unfair was that, that Sam had killed her and _she didn't even know it_.

There would never be a trial, no forgiveness, because the crime had been forgotten by everyone but Sam, Dean and Emmett.

And it was a crime.

Sam had tried to rationalize it to himself. He'd barely gotten to the restaurant in time to take the shot at all, breathless and still half out of it from his vision. He'd known that if Hope wasn't stopped, Dean would die, and there wasn't any real certainty that Emmett un-wishing everything would bring someone back to life, after all.

If it came down to Hope or Dean, Sam would chose Dean. Right this moment, if he had to choose all over again, he'd still make the same choice, but still...

Sam hadn't shot to wound, hadn't shot to try an disarm. He'd looked at a woman, a victim, and he'd shot to kill.

And he had, in fact killed her.

Sam meant what he said. No matter how hard Dean might want to ignore that little fact, a woman had died, and Sam had been the cause.

Not a bad guy, not a monster, just an innocent woman who'd gotten caught up in a spell gone wrong and Sam had killed her for it.

John was right. Sam was absolutely sure about it now. Sam could never have a normal life, could never be a part of decent society. The darkness in Sam was growing, the visions and his actions were proof of that.

Sam was a monster.

He'd made the decision to put everything he had into hunting, desperate to try and earn some kind of redemption.

Instead, he had murdered a victim.

He turned the bullet over and over in his fingers, thoughts pinwheeling through his mind.

A part of him thought he should put the bullet to better use than a paperweight in his pocket, but the religious lessons he had received from Pastor Jim held firm in his mind.

If demons were real, then Hell surely was, and Sam shuddered to think what he'd become one he was there.

He didn't want to die, not if it meant going to Hell.

Sometimes he wished it would just all be over, just darkness and quiet, no more guilt, no more pain.

No more father watching and waiting for the day Sam let loose the monster sleeping inside himself. No more brother trying to fix something too broke to even know what it was supposed to be anymore.

No more of Sam's endless quest to try and redeem himself.

No more fear.

A part of Sam was angry. A part of Sam was furious, in fact. Some demon had done something to him, made him bad, made him unnatural, made him wrong.

Wouldn't it just be a kicker if Sam took these visions or nightmares or whatever the hell they were and turned them against the other monsters?

A monster to hunt the monsters...

Sure, he could never be normal, could never be human, or innocent or even just good, the way Dean was.

But what was that old saying?

Be good or be good at it.

Sam knew he could never be good, had never, in fact been good. He was tainted, damaged goods and had been since the night his unsuspecting brother carried him out of their burning house.

Be good at it.

Sam stared musingly at the bullet in his hand. This time, when the mental image of Hope lying in her own blood flashed across his mind, he forced it down with ruthless will power.

He couldn't afford to feel guilt, to feel remorse.

Maybe he couldn't afford to feel anything.

He truly believed what he had said to Dean on the dock.

Love destroyed.

People did desperate, crazy things for love. Their father had dragged two small children across the country in a car full of weapons out of some misguided sense of love for his murdered wife. Sam's mother had died trying to protect him from the monster, more love gone wrong.

John had learned that Sam was evil, had Demon blood in him, but instead of putting a bullet in Sam's head like he would have any other monster, he'd let Sam live, and Sam could only chalk it up to more misguided love.

Sam had no doubt that if Dean had though Hope was going to shoot Sam, he'd have plugged her once in the heart and once again in the head for pissing him off, and that would have been out of _love_ , also.

Love was the enemy, it made you do things you'd never do otherwise, just as fear did, because they were just different sides of the same coin. Loving something or someone meant spending every second of your life being afraid of losing them.

Love and fear and the stupid, desperate things people would do for it.

Love destroyed.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Dean stuck his head in Sam's darkened room. He'd already been there when Dean had gotten off work at the garage.

"Sam? You okay?" He said carefully, trying to study his brother in the dim light.

Sam sat up on his bed. "Yeah, I just left school early. Migraine, but the medicine seems to have worked."

Dean frowned. "You need an ER?" He asked, trying to remember the last time he'd had to take Sam to the hospital for a migraine. On average, they had to go three or four times a year. Sam had medicines for them, but it was really only a fifty-fifty chance of them working.

In a perfect world, Sam would be treated by a neurologist, but that wasn't really an option for the Winchesters.

Sam stood slowly. "Yeah. I'm fine now. Just needed to get my head in order."

Dean studied him. "Sam, you know you can talk to me, right? About anything. Even the chick-flick shit, if that's what you need..."

Sam tilted his head at Dean curiously. "Nope. I'm good to go. Like a said, just needed a couple of hours to get my head on straight."

Dean nodded. "Okay, then. Um, back a bag, will ya? Two or three days worth, the rest can stay here. Bobby sent Dad some coordinates for a town in Indiana. He thinks the town's doing some creepy harvest sacrifice or something. Dad's sending me and you to check it out."

Sam nodded. "So, like the lottery?" HE asked.

"Huh?" Dean said, and Sam shook his head.

"Let's go, then." Sam said, reaching over to the small nightstand beside his bed and drawing out his gun, tucking it securely into the small of his back.

He looked up, meeting Dean's eyes squarely. Dean swallowed, the sight of the gun in Sam's hands bring up memories or Berryville, and the look in Sam's eye's when he'd shot Hope.

Dean had never held it against Sam, not even for a second. He'd drive back to Berryville right now and shoot her again if he thought she was a danger to Sam. It was unfortunate that Sam had had to shoot a victim, but sometimes it happened, especially when they became aggressive.

But Sam had looked almost...resigned.

Sam walked past him, duffel in hand.

"You coming, Dean?" he called as he started down the stairs.

Dean shook himself out of his reverie.

"Yeah. Let's do this."


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: So, apologies, I know I swore you all had seen the last of the shorter chapters, but my Mom is once again in ICU. I swear, I will keep writing if you all just bear with me. This story is outlined, and I love some of the twists and turns it has taken, and everyone has been so loyal and wonderful about reviewing. I am dedicated to taking this story through to the end, just forgive the shorter chapters while I ride out the insanity in my home life.**

**I did fail to update yesterday, but I figure two days out of the whole month isn't too bad, right?**

**So, Monday, _How To Fix A Winchester_ updated, and I continue to get some amazing prompts for that project. _Tuesday's Child_ is set to update this coming Tuesday, just bear with me, I've been hammering out the final details on the outline. _All The Pretty Monsters_ got a double update on Sunday, which I'm pretty proud of.**

**As Always,**

_**EverReader**_

**Prisoner of War – Chapter Twenty-Three**

"**Harvest Moon"**

"So, what's the name of the town again?" Sam asked as he flipped once more through the case files Bobby had put together.

Sam had always known Bobby was smarter than he let on, but this was near genius. Two victims, every year, for decades, from all over the country. Always travelers, always wanderers, nothing to tie directly back to the last town they were seen in. If the disappearances didn't always take place during the October full moon, even Bobby might not have caught on to the pattern.

"Merit, Indiana." Dean replied, still yawning as the sun slowly started to rise.

They'd only managed a few hours on the road last night before Dean had decided to grab a room for the night. Though Sam hadn't said anything, he knew it had to be because of him. Used to be, if Sam was tired, he just slept in the car while Dean kept on driving, through the night if need be.

Since Sam's illness, however, Sam had noticed Dean putting more stock in sleep and food, even as Sam was finding himself less interested in those very same things.

The case, on the other hand, Sam was finding fascinating.

"I think Bobby's right. The timing on this indicates a harvest ritual, as do the choices in victims. Always one male and one female. That's old school, pagan, possibly Druid." Sam muttered, more to himself that Dean, though Dean responded anyway.

"Merit's small, according to Bobby. More a village than a town, and almost everyone's related in some way or another to every one else. It was an immigrant town, Germans, founded almost two hundred years ago." Dean said.

Sam frowned, looking through some more of Bobby's notes. "Low un-employement, zero crime. No drought, near a highway. Why hasn't the town grown, over all these years? On paper, it's ideal. Even the location is good."

Dean frowned also. "What are you thinking, that they discourage new blood from moving in?"

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe. That would mean several of the towns people are in on the sacrifices, and that's how they keep it quiet. Or whatever deity they are sacrificing to worked some mojo to keep the community secluded."

Dean snorted. "Great, so either a whole town of homicidal maniacs, or one harvest god who really likes his privacy."

"Or both." Sam murmured in agreement as he flipped back to the photo of the most recent couple who had disappeared.

Tessa Sanders had been a pretty brunette, with wide brown eyes and an upturned nose. Jesse Campbell had been tall, not as tall as Sam, but maybe 6'2. He wouldn't have gone down with a fight, but if they had grabbed Tessa first, perhaps they townspeople had used her as leverage to get him to do what they wanted.

Or they had drugged them...

Moving to put the photo back in the folder, his eyes caught on Jesse's tattoo, and with a sad realization, he realized the pattern, which appeared random at first, actually had Tessa's and his initials worked into it.

Would these two people have even been targeted by the Merit townsfolk if they hadn't been together?

Love destroys.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean glanced over at his brother speculatively. Sam had been quiet on the drive this morning, but that appeared to be his new normal.

"How's the head?" He asked, careful to sound casual.

"Hmmm? Oh, it's fine." Sam replied without looking up from the case files.

Dean rolled his eyes. Fine, fine _fine-fine-fine._

He was worried. He'd tried to push it down, tried to ignore it, but he couldn't.

The things that had happened lately simply wouldn't let him. Sam shooting Hope in order to save Dean's life literally made Dean's chest hurt, because he didn't want that kind of guilt for Sam, especially for simply doing what Dean and John had always taught him, which was protect the family.

Lately, everything had just seemed to be too much. Injuries, illness, freaking _visions._

Sam was saying things, things Dean couldn't even wrap his mind around.

Things like 'love destroys.'

There was a time one when Sam had been the ultimate romantic, much to his older brother's chagrin. He'd liked romantic movies, romantic stories, had badgered Dean over and over again for stories of their parents back when their Mom had still been alive.

It had been a long time before Dean had understood that it wasn't just the romance for romance's sake that had attracted Sam. Sam had been trying to make sense of the fact that their father hard never gotten over their mother, had spent years tracing her killer, uprooting their lives along the way.

Sam had needed for John and Mary's romance to be an epic love story, in order for his own life to make sense. Dean had been careful not to tell him about the fights, and the times John hadn't come home. Sam hadn't needed to know that John acted as much out of remorse as love.

But somehow, it seemed, that Sam had found out, or maybe guessed. 

Was Sam's life really so full of darkness that he couldn't see the value in love? Sure, Dean was as far from romantic as possible, but he believed in it, appreciated the idea of it. He seen families nearly torn apart by the darkness in the world. Love was what was left.

Was their lifestyle making Sam so disconnected from the rest of the world that he no longer got to see that aspect of things?

Dean decided he would do his best to get Sam to interact with people more. Dean liked a pretty girl better than just about anything else. But Sam, despite his bookish ways, was the true people person. He'd start a conversation with them and come away knowing the most random details, but he liked knowing them and they liked talking to him.

Had the non-stop hunts and the illness and the moving stopped Sam from getting to connect with other people? Hunting was solitary and lonely, but Sam and John and Bobby had always been enough for Dean. He understood, intellectually, that Sam might need more in order to have a better sense of perspective.

Looking at the mile marker, Dean guessed them to be about three miles from Merit.

"Dean." Sam said, a strange tone in his voice. "Stop the car here, at the gates of that orchard."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Sam climbed out of the car slowly, trying to look everywhere at once.

The orchard was gated, but it was purely decoration, marking the boundaries of the grove more than anything else. Mist was still clinging to the ground, waiting for the sun to burn it away in a few hours. Fingers of fog caressed the trees, which Sam could see were still laden with apples, despite the late date.

"Sammy?" Dean asked again, somewhat impatiently.

"The apples." Sam replied, closing his eyes as he focused on listening to the sounds around them. He had thought, perhaps, that if the grove were tied to a pagan god the way the coin in Berryville had been, the buzzing, ringing sound in his ears might return.

He could hear nothing, and yet, a vague sense of unease drifted to him on the mist.

Dark things had happened here.

Or would.

"What about the apples?" Dean asked, coming to stand beside Sam.

Sam glanced over. "They shouldn't still be there. It's too late in the year for this climate."

Dean raised his brows. "Sounds like harvest magic to me." He said, drawing his weapon as Sam did the same.

They walked into the orchard, not sure of what to expect, but both feeling like the orchard should be investigated.

"It's all the trees." Dean commented, looking around. "They're practically falling of the branch."

Sam nodded as a chill swept over his skin, and he rubbed his arms reflexively. "One or two trees could be out of season, but a whole grove? There's no rot, they're not on the ground, no signs of frost damage. It's nearly November."

They made their way deeper into the orchard, and Sam noticed that the trees started getting older, with thicker trunks and twisted branches.

"You think this is where they do it?" Dean asked, the fog making his voice sound deeper, more resonant, as if they were in a canyon.

Sam thought for a moment. "Maybe. Would make sense to do the sacrifice close to the grove. At the least, I bet this is the deity's summer home."

Up ahead, a scarecrow had appeared, a ghostly silhouette in the fog.

"Dude, you are fugly!" Dean said with a look of disgust as they studied it.

Sam made a face himself, Dean was right, it was ugly. It's face and hands were creased and browned, almost like...leather.

"Oh man, that's gross." Dean said, coming to the same realization that Sam had at pretty much the same time.

Sam forced his hand forward, gingerly pushing back the scarecrow's shirt sleeve to reveal a wrinkled, leathery arm with the imprint of a tattoo still visible.

Tilting his head, Sam could just make out the initials 'TS'.

Love definitely hadn't saved them.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: Okay, so here is the next chapter of Prisoner of War. The next chapter after this should be pretty action packed, and I will try to get it up tomorrow, if not, then Wednesday. I would have liked to get a longer chapter up today, but I am spreading my time out as best I can, as I have several projects with updates due. **

**Thank you to all my reviewers, the support you guys have shown this project, and me and my family while my Mom is in the hospital just blows me away, and I want you all to know I am really grateful. I have some readers and reviewers who are amazingly faithful to this story, and please don't ever think that I take you for granted. This story is fun to write, but also hard, as I am trying to balances some severe changes to the characters while keeping it believable, so please don't hesitate to give me feed back. Questions, comments, thoughts are always welcome. If you haven't got a personal thank you to a review lately, I apologize, normally I try to do better, but between the multiple open projects, the busy back to school season for my son (third grade, guys, he is so big now) and of course, my mom having a heart attack and open heart surgery, I've been missing a lot. Once things are less crazy, I promise my manners will improve, but in the meantime, hit me up if you have any questions, because I give questions priority, as I never want confusion to stop someone from enjoying my story.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Prisoner of War- Chapter Twenty Four**

"**Dark Blessings"**

Dean climbed into the Impala, slamming his door shut as Sam did the same.

"Well, that is officially the grossest thing I have seen this week." Dean said, making a disgusted face as he thought about what they had witnessed back in the orchard.

Sam had been staring off into the misty trees. "Well, I'm pretty sure we know what happens now. That scarecrow isn't just a scarecrow, it's some kind of avatar."

Dean raised his brows, and Sam continued. "The deity animates it, and uses it to...collect the tithes, I guess. The skin on it's arm obviously came from Jesse, you could still see the tattoo."

Dean shuddered. "God, I hate when Hollywood gets some creepy detail right. So, you think that's the God's avatar all the time?"

Sam looked over at him. "All the time?" He asked.

Dean thought for a moment, running his memory over any other cases he'd participated on with John or Bobby that had involved pagan deities. "Usually objects housing ghosts or deities have a bit more mojo than what I felt coming off that thing. I might not be working the ghost whisperer angle the way you have been lately, but when we took out that possessed sword a few years back, just being near the thing had the hairs on my arms standing up. You just can't pack that much power into an object without it causing a reaction. I suppose the trees in the orchard could be siphoning it off, but still. That scarecrow, creepy ass fugly that it was, felt...empty."

Sam nodded thoughtfully in agreement. "Your right. It seemed pretty inanimate. Maybe the deity if already hibernating?" He offered.

Dean shook his head. "Bobby was certain the sacrifices were always killed around the full moon, and that's tonight. They might have their victims lined up, but nothing on that thing looked...fresh."

Sam made a face at Dean's choice of words.. "Try the radio, see if there's any interference."

Dean started the car and flipped on the radio. The morning announcer came on, rattling off the time and temperature along with the forecast for the rest of the day. Once or twice, the sound did warble, but nothing like they would have expected seeing as they were pretty sure it was a deity of sorts.

Deities packed a lot of mojo, especially ones that were still having sacrifices made to them. Forgotten or abandoned deities could slowly start to lose their mojo, but the yearly killings argued against that in this case.

Dean said "Harvest Gods, they're cyclic, right? Wheel of the year, and all that jazz. Sleep in the winter, wake up in the spring. Eat people on the autumn."

Sam shook his head at Dean's simplification, then took a moment to think about Dean's words. Sam knew the truth about Dean, that for all his bluff and bluster about being a soldier, Dean's handle on supernatural lore was impressive. Sam had been eight before he'd known about the monsters, Dean had been four when he'd started learning at John's knee.

Sam looked over at his brother. "You think it's something living, that's why the interference isn't so bad?"

Dean looked over. "Living avatars dispel the energy better, and make it harder to track the remainder, it's more difficult to get a read on them. So..." Dean's eyes flickered over Sam to the window behind his brother, at the crimson apples shining in the morning light.

"One of the trees..." Sam said, excitement tinging his voice.

Dean glanced over at him, memory flashing over him off all the times Sam had practically begged to be let off a case. When had Sam suddenly become so interested in hunting? He'd never even complained about missing school.

"Most of the Harvest Gods around here came from Europe. A tree or seed would have allowed that transition, back then, it would have been by ship." Sam offered finally and Dean nodded.

"That fit's Merit's time line." He agreed.

"An orchard grown from seeds from a tree housing a harvest God would certainly have a longer growing season." Sam added, looking over at the trees also.

"Well, then. Let's go check out Merit. No real way of knowing if they've already picked out this year's sacrifice. If they grabbed people yesterday or the day before, they could have them locked up somewhere." Dean said, checking the road before pulling the Impala back out onto the road, heading towards town.

The brothers were quiet on the ride, both locked in their own thoughts. The town limit sign came into view.

Merit, Pop. 238

The town itself was as small as they had expected, with two main streets intersecting to create a 'downtown' and a handful of residential streets branching off. The houses were all quaint and neatly kept, white picket fences painted, hedges trimmed, laundry already drying on the lines. Traffic was practically none existent, and Dean thought about how unlucky those couples must have been to have stopped through at just the right (or wrong, as it might be) time to be chosen as the sacrifices.

A combo gas station/garage was situated immediately beside a small diner, and the sign over the pumps reading 'Scotties' apparently covered both businesses.

"Up for lunch?" Dean asked, glancing over at his brother.

Sam looked slightly green at the thought. "I wouldn't get any pie, if I were you."

"Oh man, why did you have to go and ruin it." Dean muttered as they pulled up to the pumps.

A pretty blonde girl, maybe Sam's age or so came out, and Dean looked at her speculatively for a moment before glancing over at his brother. Maybe it was time he started trying to help Sam reconnect with other people a little more.

He tossed his wallet to Sam.

"Sammy, pay the pretty girl when she's done, will ya?" He said, as Sam caught his wallet reflexively.

"I'm gonna go in and grab a table, check out the local color." Dean added as he let himself out. "Fill her up, okay?"

"O..K." Sam said slowly, brows creased in confusion, but obediently getting out to greet the blonde girl.

Forcing down his smile, Dean shoved his hands in his denim jacket.

Sam was still using his leather one, Dean had managed to get the blood off one day while Sam was at school. Sam could have worn a hoodie, but Dean actually liked the way it fit on Sam, the jacket that had been John's and then Dean's. Eventually, Sam's shoulders would fill out the rest of the way, and Dean would most likely get it back, as it would no longer fit, but in the meantime, it offered better protection than a sweatshirt would.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam smiled a little awkwardly at the blonde girl, feeling a little stupid that she was pumping the gas for him, wishing for once that he still had his sling on so he would at least have a good reason to let her.

She just smiled at him like she did it all the time though, and maybe she did, so who was Sam to stand in the way of feminism.

"Passing through?" She asked conversationally, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind one ear.

"Uh, sorta." Sam said, pulling the picture of Jesse and Tessa out of his pocket.

"This is my cousin, Jesse. He and his girlfriend Tessa, passed through her about a year ago, and shortly after, they disappeared. This is the last stop we know they made. My brother and I decided it was time to step up the search, see if anyone remembered anything." He passed the photo over to her, and she squinted at it closely for a moment, before shaking her head. "Maybe...but, you know, this is the kind of town that everyone just passes through."

Sam studied her eyes, but could see no indication that she was lying. "Okay, well, thanks for looking. So, this the only gas station?"

She smiled brightly. "Yeah, Merit's pretty small. This is the only service station, and the only restaurant. My Uncle Harley and Aunt June run the restaurant, and Uncle Harley's best friend Scott runs the garage."

Sam smiled back at her. "What about your parents, what do they do in a town this size?"

She shook her head. "They passed away when I was a kid. Car accident. Uncle Harley and Aunt June took me in."

"So, not a Merit native then?" Sam said, fishing curiously, wondering if she had any idea of what kind of town she actually lived in.

"No, I wasn't born here. Didn't even visit until my parents died. My Mom hated the place, said it wasn't right." Emily (her name tag read Emily, anyway) offered.

"Not right?" Sam asked, interest piqued. Had Emily's mother moved away because she found out about the sacrifices? Or, even worse, had her parents been the sacrifice one year and she not realize it? A town this size, the townspeople couldn't count on always having a convenient pair of visitors of the right kind at the right time. A disapproving town native, and a non-native husband might have made an appealing option if the town were hard up.

She shrugged. "I guess she meant that it was too small, and almost everyone's related one way or another. This way of life isn't made for everyone."

Sam passed her the twenty. "What about you? Too small for your tastes?"

She shook her head, smiling again as she wrapped her sweater a little tighter around her. "No. I love it. I bus over to the next town for school half days, and all my class mates talk about how their parents are losing their jobs, the recession, crops failing. Merit never seems to have that kind of problem, everyone's kind to one another, the bad things just don't seem to happen here."

"Like...the town's blessed or something, huh?" Sam said speculatively.

She nodded. "Yeah, exactly like that."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Dean let himself into the small cafe, immediately feeling ill at ease as three pairs of eyes locked on him.

An older man and woman were fluttering around a young couple seated at one of the tables. The young couple continued eating, paying no mind to Dean, but the older man and woman, along with another, sour looking man in blue coveralls, were practically glaring at Dean.

Ignoring their pointed looks, he sat himself down at the table next to the young couple, smiling winningly at the older woman.

"Uh...June." He said, reading her name off her name tag, "Can I get a couple of menus for myself and my brother? He's getting the car gassed up, but we hit the road early, and we're starving."

"Sure." The woman said shortly, dropping two menus unceremoniously on the table in front of Dean. Dean's brows raised in acknowledgment of her poor manners, but he held his tongue. Her attitude only reinforced his conviction that the young couple at the next table were Merit's next victims. The bell over the door chimed as Sam came in, seating himself calmly beside Dean.

Dean smiled cheekily, waggling his eyebrows at Sam with a meaningful look outside to where Emily had stopped to chat with an older woman out walking.

Sam shook his head exasperated, smiling politely up at June when she brought their glasses of water.

Dean watched in amusement as June struggled to maintain her sour expression in the face of Sam's sunshine smile, as Dean called it. He only did it when he wasn't thinking about it, and it had been the driving factor behind more than one free scoop of ice cream over the course of their lifetimes.

Dean hadn't seen enough of it lately.

"What can I get for you?" She asked, slightly more polite now that Sam was seated also, and Dean repressed a snigger. Sam's eyes met his, and Dean realized that Sam must have quickly summed up the situation when he walked in, as laughter danced in his own eyes.

The little shit had done it on purpose.

Dean let his own smile free.

Good for Sam.

Sam looked over at the young couple. "Yours smells amazing, what did you order?" He asked conversationally, and June's eyelid twitched.

The young woman looked over at Sam. "Oh, it is. Chicken pot pie, I swear, it's better than my grandmother's, but don't tell her!"

Sam smiled earnestly. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

"Passing through?" Dean asked casually, joining the conversation.

The woman nodded. "We got so lucky. We just stopped for gas, and Scotty realized one of our brake lines was leaking. We could have been killed!"

Sam's eyes widened. "Talk about luck. How long to fix it?"

The man spoke up then. "Small town like this, he had to send a guy the next town over for a part, by he's promised to have us on the road by nightfall."

Sam nodded. "Gotta love small town hospitality. You know, my brother Dean's a hell of a mechanic, we travel with some spare parts cause we do a lot of driving. Want him to take a look, see if he has the hose Scottie needs?"

Dean nodded approvingly, guessing Sam's plan.

The woman hesitated. "Thanks, but, I'd feel better if we used the one the manufacturer recommends." She said.

"Sure, sure, of course. Just thought we'd offer." Dean said, smiling big.

June clanked down to pot pies, and Dean wondered if she had spit in them of the way out of the kitchen.

"You too just passing through, then?" She asked shortly.

Dean's eyes met Sam's, and Sam drew a photo out of his pocket, handing it over to her. "My brother and I are looking for anyone who remembers our cousin, Jesse. He passed through last year, on a cross country trip with his girlfriend, Tessa. The phone company says the last time they had reception was right outside of Merit."

Scottie broke in then, with a voice like sour lemons. "Phone's don't work to well in Merit. We're too small to have our own tower. Wouldn't rely too much on what the phone company says."

Dean smiled tightly. "We'll keep that in mind."

Dean climbed back into the car, Sam doing the same on the passenger's side. From the cafe's window, he could feel the stares of June, Harley and the charming Scottie.

"That's got to be them." Sam said without preface.

Dean nodded, looking over at his brother. "We need more info on the best way to kill this thing. If we can't do it by tonight, we have to find a way to stop the sacrifice."

"Library?" Sam asked wryly.

Dean made a face. "Library." He agreed reluctantly.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: And here we go, the next chapter of Prisoner of War. So, one more chapter after this wraps up the episode Scarecrow, anyone want to take a guess as to which brother gets to save which next chapter? **

**Next chapter is going to be kinda a biggie, because Sam and Dean are going to say some things that will set big things in motion. That's right, kids, Sam 2.0 and Dean "The Ultimate Big Brother" are going to go head to head. But don't worry, the brother's would never argue and split up during a case like this, right? Hehehehehehe...**

**Going to try to get the next chapter of Tuesday's Child up tonight also, so you guys might check back in a few hours if you are following that project. And tomorrow I am off, and the plan is to take my son to school, lock myself in my apartment, pretend my phone doesn't exist, and write like a maniac. First day of the new month and all, and I have set a crazy goal for myself for story views in October. I am seriously going to be writing like a crazy person.**

**Reviews are love, this story now has more reviews than I have ever had on a single story in my life and you guys should know it means the world to me! I'm hoping this story tops three hundred by the time it comes to a close, are you guys with me to the end?**

**All The Pretty Monsters and How To Fix A Winchester are both set to update tomorrow, and I know a certain reader who's pretty excited to see her prompt wrote, so I am looking forward to it.**

**As Always, **

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: This is still not my sandbox.**

**Prisoner of War – Chapter Twenty-Five**

"**Stand Your Ground"**

It should be said that Dean hated research, hated libraries and dusty tomes and paper cuts and _Latin_.

But in particular, he hated college libraries, with their co-eds in their horned rimmed glasses looking down their noses at him while they discussed philosophy and the guy, stoned behind the reference desk because he had to be there, not because he was any good at his job.

But what he always hated the most was the look of absolute _yearning_ on Sam's face anytime they had to go to a college campus.

The bright eyes, the longing glances at the dorms and the professors walking by with their briefcases never failed to inspire hope and determination in Sam and a cold sense of dread in Dean, because as much as he could never imagine Sam not being with Dean and John, when he walked along the pretty walkways of a college quad with his grinning brother at his side, it was all to easy to imagine Sam someplace like this, as far away from hunting and monsters and John and _Dean_ as possible.

So as they pulled up to the University of Indiana, Highland campus, Dean braced himself for the worst. There was no help for it, as Merit didn't exactly have it's own library, not that they could have used it anyway with half the town being suspects.

Once again, however, Sam 2.0 surprised him. There was no lagging behind to read the notice boards about clubs and campus elections, there was no excited discussion about lectures and debates and guest speakers. There were none of the longing glances and lingering looks.

There was no excited grin.

Instead, Sam made a beeline straight for the library, Dean trailing in his wake.

The librarian was actually old enough to be a librarian, for once, and more than that, he seemed to know his job. With only a few insightful questions, the man soon had them at a table with a stack of books that were surprisingly on topic.

The brothers dived in, though Dean wasn't half the researcher Sam was, he was no slouch, as John had made sure both boys could adequately prepare for a hunt.

Sam's Latin was undeniably better, however, so they divided the books, with Sam skimming the Latin ones for pertinent information, and Dean tackling the books in English.

Only an hour or two in, Sam hit on something.

"Dean, get this- 'Cowan : A pagan harvest god known for taking the form of scarecrow.'" Sam read excitedly.

Dean snapped his fingers. "Wait, hold on, I saw that name too. Here." He picked up a heavy tome, flipping through it. "It didn't say what kind of god he was, just that he was big in Germany until about two hundred and twenty years ago."

Sam nodded, mind obviously racing. "If the immigrants somehow brought him with them when they came to America, that would account for the decline in his popularity in Germany."

"No kidding." Dean agreed. "Not much use praying to a God who never bothers to show up."

Sam flicked his eyes to Dean at Dean's pessimistic statement, but he didn't say a word.

It was a refreshing change, as Sam had always been the more religious (and obviously optimistic, in Dean's opinion) of the two brothers, but it just served to illustrate to Dean once again how much his brother had changed in such a short period of time.

"You're probably right." Sam agreed simply, and Dean forced himself to look away, refusing to dwell on Sam's changed personality when they had a case to focus on.

"What else does it say about this Cowan dude?" Dean asked.

Sam frowned. "Well, the time frame matches well enough, but it says here that Cowan had originally been a pretty friendly guy as far as pagan gods went. Back in Germany, they had just sacrificed live stock on every full moon."

Dean made a face. "Well, his taste in food has obviously changed."

Sam thought for a moment, looking back down at the page and re-reading a section to himself silently.

Dean never understood how so many newer (and in the realm of the supernatural, two hundred years was relatively new) books still ended up being written in Latin, but somehow, every hunt they seemed to end up with at least a handful of the stupid things.

Perhaps there was some secret society out there taking notes on the supernatural and gleefully writing it in Latin to make it harder on poor hunters like Dean.

"A binding spell." Sam said suddenly. "Look, it says Cowan had been a wanderer, going from town to town throughout the growing season. But the people of Merit obviously wanted him bound specifically to their town. In the old days, because he wandered, every full moon another town made the sacrifice, no one town had to give up live stock twelve times a year."

Dean nodded. "Struggling immigrant town, hungry families, harsh winters. Live stock would have been pretty precious."

"More precious than a couple of wandering peddlers." Sam agreed. "Or even handicapped townsfolk, or orphans. Someone who was of no use to the town. Human sacrifices pack more mojo than animal sacrifices. The town probably thought two people a year was a fair trade, and after a while, Cowan wouldn't have accepted an animal sacrifice."

"That is so sick. Man, I freaking hate witch craft. Wait, what time is it?"" Dean asked, suddenly.

Sam glanced down at his watch. "A little after three. Why?"

"What do you want to bet old Scottie miraculously gets that couple's care going just in time to pass by that orchard after the sun goes down. We have to get there before that." Dean said, standing up to shrug on his jacket.

Sam shook his head. "But we haven't found out how to kill it. Do you really want to go up against that creepy scarecrow god without a weapon you know works?"

Dean frowned. "Saving people, Sam. Then hunting things. Saving people, hunting things. The victim comes first. As long as we get those people out of the orchard tonight, they'll be safe. We can come back here tomorrow and do more research on how to kill it. Hell, maybe by disrupting the sacrifice ritual, it will die on it's own."

"Or get even more pissed off." Sam said, though he stood obediently. "You think I should hit the next stack of books while you go save those people?"

Dean shook his head immediately. "Hell no, kiddo. You have a bad habit of finding trouble lately. We're sticking together."

Sam opened his mouth, and for once Dean thought he was going to get an actual argument out of him, but just as suddenly as he'd opened his mouth, he closed it again.

"We got the shot guns in the car?" He finally asked.

Dean made a face at him. "Dude, do I ever not? Do you think they'll do any good?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, I'll feel a lot better as it eats me if I've shot a load of buck shot into it first."

Dean stuck out his tongue. "Classy, kiddo. Real classy."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

The brother's had underestimated Highland's traffic, and by the time they arrived at Cowan's grove, as Sam had begun to think of it, dark had already fallen.

"Shit!" Dean cursed as they pulled up outside the orchard's gate. "Look at that car. It has to be those two chumps from the diner."

Sam was already in motion, opening the passenger car even before Dean had gotten a chance to fully bring the vehicle to a stop.

He lunged for the trunk, springing the lock and yanking up the false bottom.

Reaching in, he seamlessly grabbed the first sawn-off shotgun, checking to see it was loaded, cocking it and passing it off to his brother even as Dean was coming around the rear of the Impala.

"Locked and loaded." Sam said, checking his own weapon.

His hand gun was already loaded and holstered at the small of his back, but he hoped he wouldn't have to go up against a two-hundred plus year old deity with a hand gun, even one given to him by John Winchester.

"Stay behind me!" His brother ordered tersely, and though he didn't let any emotions show, mentally, Sam rolled his eyes.

Eventually, Dean would have to see that Sam wasn't a child anymore.

A scream echoed from the orchard just then, and with a worried glance at each other, the two brothers sprinted for the gate.

The mist had returned, fingers of cold fog shrouding the trees mysteriously, and Sam imagined he could see figures in the mist, all of Merit's past victims, reaching out, beseeching the brothers for help that would never come in time.

Now, the best they could hope for was peace.

They quickly gained the clearing where the scarecrow had hung only a few hours ago, though the cross was now empty, bare wood and torn rope moving gently in the breeze.

Cowan (if it was, in fact, Cowan and the Winchesters weren't horribly wrong) had, indeed animated the scarecrow, just as they had guessed. It moved quickly, in uneven, stilted lurches and jerks, but that didn't seem to hinder it as it closed in on it's victims.

The man from the diner had picked up a tree limb, and was using it as a club of sorts, swinging it wildly in an attempt to ward the creature of from his girlfriend. The girl had fallen, most likely while trying to flee, and she was clutching one ankle even as she was scooting back from the monster looming over her. The angry buzzing sound was louder than ever, and a part of Sam was waiting for a swarm of locusts or wasps to burst forth from the creature's chest any moment like one of the plagues of old.

Sam's line of sight was blocked by the boyfriend, but Dean must have had a clear shot, because he fired once, then twice, the shots back to back, echoing loudly in the fog. The scarecrow jerked twice, slowing momentarily, before retreating slightly. It didn't back away much, but it was enough.

Dean tossed his now empty shot gun to Sam, who slung the strap over his shoulder.

It was useless as anything but a club now until they'd had a chance to reload it, and now Sam knew that both buckshot and rock salt had very little effect on the deity, because Dean habitually loaded his shot gun with one round of each. They had rounds of salt packed with miscellaneous herbs and spices in the Impala, as certain monsters hated certain things, such as black dogs, who hated cinnamon for some inane reason, but Sam didn't have time to go back and get creative with the recipe.

"Cover me!" Dean ordered as he swooped down, grabbing up the girl easily.

In a perfect world, they would have had the boyfriend carry her as they held off the scarecrow, but Dean obviously didn't think the bullets in his hand gun would do any good, and besides, the boyfriend wasn't exactly Mr. Muscles, Dean easily had twenty pounds on him.

Sam fired once reflexively as Cowan, sensing his prey's escape, lunged forward. The shot made him back off again, but Sam knew they were in trouble, because it was still moving _fast_.

He had one round left in his sawn-off, and there was no way one more shot would be enough cover for Dean to carry the girl all the way out of the orchard, and besides, they didn't really even know how far away was far enough.

They needed a new plan.

He lunged to the boyfriend. Though the guy wasn't very big, Sam had to give him credit, he'd grabbed a sturdy branch and never gave up.

He still clutched it as Sam ran over. Dean had started back towards the gate and Sam watched as Cowan rocked back and then forward again, appearing as if he were working up the nerve to lunge.

"Can you shoot this?" Sam asked, shoving the weapon into the stunned man's hands, and he spared a second to marvel at how much his voice sounded like his father's at that moment.

The man blinked, but then nodded and Sam breathed a silent prayer of thanks. "Cover them, there's one shot left, and then go back to swinging if you have to!"

"SAM!" Sam could hear Dean calling, but his mind was already set on his course of action.

Drawing his handgun, he quickly circled the scarecrow, until he was now on the far side from his brother and the other two.

Maybe consecrated iron rounds would piss it off a little more.

Sam took a firing stance, making sure the man wasn't in the line of fire, before pulling the trigger rapidly, watching as the scarecrow jerked repeatedly, before turning to face Sam. The volume of the buzzing seemed to increase, and now Sam was positive he was hearing it in his mind, because none of the others seemed to be reacting to the increased volume, now nearly as loud as sirens.

"Come and get me, asshole" Sam muttered, firing once more before taking several rapid steps back, doing his best to draw it after him, deeper into the orchard.

"Try me on for size." He said, watching as Cowan came towards him.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean was so startled by the sounds of Sam's handgun he nearly dropped the girl in his arms. He'd been counting shots, and Sam should have still had one round left in the shot gun, why the hell had he switched over to a handgun?

He turned, looking over his shoulder, jaw dropping when he saw the boyfriend getting closer...and Sam and the Scarecrow getting further away.

"SAM!" He called, panicked as he heard Sam fire yet another shot. Though they weren't more than a few dozen yards away, the mist was making it hard to see clearly, Cowan and his brother no more than dim silhouettes in the mist.

He hesitated for a moment, desperate to go back for Sam, but one look at the terrified girl in his arms had him sprinting like am Olympian towards the Impala. So fast he almost wished he was being timed, just for the hell of it, he reached the car, unlocking it swiftly.

"Get inside, lock the doors!" He ordered the girl as the silhouette of her boyfriend came up beside them. Jerking the shot gun out of the man's hands, Dean ran back towards the grove.

His eyes searched the tree's rapidly, calling out his brother's name, "SAMMY!"

The echo of another gun shot answered him and he zeroed in on the origin of the report.

Slowly, the shapes of Sam and Cowan came into focus. Sam had chosen high ground, or, as high as he could, the small hill near the center of the orchard affording his a clear view of the oncoming creature.

Blood trickled from a small cut on his forehead, perhaps from where a tree branch had lashed out at him while he'd lead the monster away from Dean and the others.

He was standing, shoulders level as he calmly fired round after round into the deity, who was barely even flinching now as it advanced steadily.

When Sam's gun clicked, the chamber fully emptied, Dean swung the shot gun off his own shoulder, taking aim as Sam continued moving with an almost preternatural calm.

Gracefully, as if he had all the time in the world, Sam holstered his handgun and dropped his other shoulder in the same moment, leaving the shotgun to fall into his now emptied hands.

Dean squeezed off the last round from his own weapon as the scarecrow narrowed down the last of the space between it and Sam.

It was a dangerous shot, especially with a shot gun, and Dean saw Sam give just the tiniest flinch as some of the buckshot obviously went wide and struck him, but he never stopped as he brought his own shotgun up like a club.

The Scarecrow jerked with the impact of Dean's shot, and Sam took advantage of it's disorientation to swing hard and clear, directly at the Scarecrow's head.

There was a sound of ripping fabric, and straw flew up and out as the scarecrow suddenly tumbled, lifeless down to the ground.

"Move your ass, Sam!" Dean hollered at his brother, knowing they couldn't count on a pagan god staying down for too long, even with it's head half ripped off.

Sam looked over at that moment, and Dean was struck by how much older, how much more serious, how very _foreign_ his brother looked in that moment, in the darkness and the mist, a weapon in his hands and an empty look on his face, as if the idea that he was leaving the orchard was novel to him.

Had Sam not expected Dean to come after him? Had he thought he was going to go head to head with the monster by himself?

It was like there was a stranger hiding behind Sam's eyes, and Dean had no idea how long he'd been there, but he was finally seeing him now, and it sent chills down his spine, because this stranger was obviously dangerous.

Not because he was armed, not because he was obviously lethal.

This stranger was dangerous because he very obviously thought he was all alone.

Like an island in the mist, this new Sam had seemed to lose the knowledge that Dean would come for him, was always going to come for his. He'd stood calmly, facing down the murderous rage of a _god_, for Christ's sake, and he hadn't even seemed worried, hadn't seemed to care.

This Sam acted like he was a solitary hunter, like no one had his back.

Like no one could save him.

"Move, SAM!" He called again, and Sam blinked, springing into motion, lunging over the Cowan's fallen avatar, making a beeline for Dean.

He grabbed at Dean's shoulder as he ran past, and Dean blinked, feeling almost like the last few, unreal moments in the orchard had been just a dream. Pivoting, he brought up the rear, checking over his shoulder every few feet, but the Scarecrow didn't move again as they escaped the orchard.

And somewhere, deep down, Dean began to feel angry.

He'd been frightened and worried and nervous and downright scared at different times since Sam's great new attitude adjustment, but now, for the first time, he began to feel pissed off.

This new attitude of Sam's wasn't an improvement, it was going to get his kid brother killed.

Well, not on Dean's watch.


	26. Chapter 26

**Okay, so I wouldn't normally post such a short chapter, but A. this fight was so major that writing anything immediately after felt weird. Both I and the boys needed a little space after that, and B. This update will make my forth update since about 11 am this morning, and I think my brain is mush. I actually wrote through a tornado warning. So, next chapter will finish the scarecrow case, I just didn't realize just how intense this little fight was going to get.**

**By the way, did you notice what I said a moment ago? FOUR UPDATES – IN ONE DAY!**

**(And the crowd goes wild...) **

**So, reviews are love.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox. My sandbox got blown to Oz by that stupid storm an hour ago. **

**Prisoner Of War- Chapter Twenty Six**

"**Broke-Down Fairy Tale"**

Dean did surprisingly well, all things considered.

The boys made it all the way back to the motel before he lost it.

"What the fuck was that about, Sam!" Dean yelled as he slammed into their room, tossing his bad onto the bed closest to the door.

It pretty much went down hill from there.

"What was what about?" Sam asked calmly, as if the boys were simply discussing the baseball score and not kamikaze one on one prize fights with freaky scarecrow gods.

"That little stunt of yours back the the freaking orchard, that's what!" Dean yelled.

Sam pulled back slightly, raising his brows at Dean's tone. "Well, the creepy-ass moving scarecrow is a pagan harvest god by the name of Cowan." He said, making a mild bitch face at his brother.

Dean stepped up into his brother's space threateningly. "Don't you...just. Don't. You know exactly what I am talking about. You ran the _wrong goddam way,_ Sam. Did you suddenly lose all sense of direction? Hit your head when I wasn't looking?"

Sam sighed, folding his long limbs down into a chair. "I was covering you and the others." He replied.

Dean slammed his hand against the wall. "From across the damn orchard? Try again Sammy."

Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, acting as if Dean were an overtired child having a temper tantrum.

"You needed more time than one shot was going to get you. I went the other way in attempt to give Cowan a second target, and it worked. He followed me, and you were able to get the couple out of the orchard." Sam reasoned aloud.

"BUT I ALMOST DIDN"T GET YOU OUT!" Dean yelled at the top of his lungs, furious with how damned reasonable Sam was acting about this, because nothing about this damn situation was reasonable in his opinion.

"You said it yourself, Dean. Saving people, hunting things. That's what we do. You had the girl, I was the bait." Sam said, standing and going over to his bag and taking out a bottle of tylenol.

Dean grabbed the bottle out of his hands, tossing it across the room to bounce against the far wall. "You don't act as bait. That's never been the plan, will never be the plan. When we need bait, I'm the damn bait, Sam." He said angrily.

"Peter. Constance. I've been the bait before. It made sense when you were stronger and faster, but this time, you grabbed the girl, so I was bait. It was logical." Sam said thinly, and Dean could tell he was finally starting to rattle his brother and his oh-so clear cut logic.

"No. It does not make sense to run away from back up like some stupid actress in a grade b horror flick!" Dean retorted.

"What exactly did you want me to do, Dean. Watch it rip into one of you? We had a problem, I came up with a plan, and it worked." Sam said tightly, shifting to face his brother straight on.

"IT DID NOT WORK, I BARELY SAVED YOUR ASS! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!" Dean screamed.

"SO WHAT!" Sam screamed back suddenly, chest heaving as high spots of color began to blaze on his cheeks.

Dean reared back in shock, he'd have been less surprised if Sam had actually hit him. "What the hell did you say?" Dean whispered.

"I said, So. WHAT!." Sam wasn't yelling now, instead his voice got quieter, practically hissing in his anger as he advanced towards his brother, each word sharper than a knife blade.

"You know, Dean, I just don't get it. My whole life it's been, train harder, train faster, move here, move there." Sam's words were still low, still furious, such a stark contrast to how loud and strident John and Dean got in their anger.

"Find the monster, kill the monster. Isn't that what we do, Dean? Save people, hunt things? I hated it, I hated every damn moment, I used to day dream about running away to absolutely fucking anywhere, anywhere that wasn't blood and darkness and death, because you know what, Dean? That's all a hunter's life is. Look at Dad, look at Bobby, look at all the other, older hunters. Oh, wait, there aren't any. That's because a hunter's life is short and brutal and ends bloody. It's always been that way, Dean. People aren't meant to be raised like this. Dad started hunting in his thirties, and he'll be lucky if he sees sixty. So that's what, twenty five years? You started hunting when you were fourteen or so, so maybe you'll luck out and see forty. Me? I was freaking twelve, Dean. And before that, it was moving and lore and silver freaking bullets for bedtime stories. How many hunts to I get before I get unlucky? Before some monster rips out my heart, or my spleen or drinks my damn brain?"

Dean shook his head, horrified by his brothers words. "How can you say that, Sam. We're helping people."

"That's right, Dean. We kill the monsters until the monsters kill us. What kind of broke-down fairy tale are you living in? Did you think it was a coincidence that there are no retired hunters? We die, Dean. Earlier than most, and it's always bloody. We don't get happy endings. Did you just think, what, that bad things happen to every hunter but the Winchesters? Were we just going to magically stroll through life killing the monsters but never dying ourselves? This is our life, Dean. Every moment, every day. Hunt or be hunted. Kill or be killed. Our job was to save that couple, so I made sure you could do that. You got me out too, which is fine, but I'm not stupid enough to think I'm always going to make it out just because you_ really, really want me to_, Dean. WE HUNT MONSTERS. The things everyone else runs away from, we run towards. So yeah, so what if it had killed me. What would I be missing, the next hunt?"

Dean was so angry he was seeing red. "It's not like that Sam, we stick together, we hunt together, we keep each other safe-"

Sam cut him off. "And eventually, one of us is going to die anyway. Because that's how it works. Hunters die, and the best thing I can hope for is dying with a damn gun in my hand."

Dean's hands were shaking he was so upset, and he wished desperately for a drink. "What the hell happened to you, Sammy? It's like you're not even the same person."

Sam tilted his head back, laughing so hard tears started to roll down his cheeks. "What happened, Dean? Life. Life happened. Our life. How many times did I beg to get to stay in one school? To join scouts or play sports or to have any other little piece of what other kids got to have? But you and Dad said no, because the hunt was always more important. And now, here I am, with nothing more important in my life than the goddamn hunt and you're still not happy. What the hell do you want from me, Dean? You didn't want my crying and my moaning, didn't want to hear my complaints, didn't want me to fight with Dad. Well, you got your wish. I'm a hunter. I was born a hunter, I'll die a hunter, whether it's tomorrow or a year from now. No one get's lucky for ever. I've done the math Dean. Roll the dice a hundred times, two hundred times, three hundred times. Eventually, the monster's gonna be the one who rolls lucky sevens, and then I'll be dead... _That's. How. It. Works_."

Dean punched the wall again, this time so hard plaster dust sprayed up. "You used to care about things, Sam. School, your books-"

Again, Sam interrupted, eyes blazing. "What's the point, Dean. Good grades? You and Dad gonna drop me off at college in a couple years? You and Dad sit around the table one night and make a plan you just didn't mention to me?" Sam asked.

Dean opened his mouth, but had nothing to say back, so he was forced to close it again silently.

"Yeah, didn't think so. Pipe Dream, Sammy. I'm not going to get to go to college, I don't get to have friends, I won't get married or have kids. I'll hunt monsters until I die, and then I'll just be a pile of ash." Sam said, the look in his eyes distant.

"I worked so hard to make you and Dad happy, but I'm beginning to think I can't." Sam finished lowly, moving to his back pack and grabbing it up.

"Where the hell are you going?" Dean asked, feeling shell-shocked.

Sam glanced up again, his preternatural calm back in place. "The University. We still don't know how to kill this thing."

"It's four in the morning." Dean said through numb lips, though honestly, a part of him wished Sam would leave for a little while, as he desperately needed to be alone.

"Mid terms. Library's open early this week." Sam replied, shrugging his backpack back on.

"You're not taking the damn car." Dean called out.

"I'll hitch a ride." Sam retorted as he headed out.

"No way in hell, Sam. You know how dangerous that is?" Dean called out as Sam kept walking towards the highway.

"Of course I do, Dean. It's just not the most dangerous thing I'll do today, is it?" Sam called back, an angry smirk on his face.

"FINE! Go, then. See if I stop you!" Dean called out.

Sam raised a brow. "You won't, Dean. Because I'm right, and you're furious over it. I'll call you when I know how to kill that thing."

Dean slammed the door shut and flung himself onto the closest bed.

In his mind, Sam's words echoed over and over again.

"What kind of broke-down fairy tale are you living in, Dean? Everything ends bloody..."


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Okay guys, sorry, thought this would wrap up the case, and then I realized we needed a peak into Sam's mind first, so let's get that out of the way. Last shot chapter, then some action. This chapter and the one before it mark a turning point in this story, because now Sam 2.0 doesn't have to hold himself back so much. Dean now understands where Sam is coming from, even if he doesn't know why yet, and it's going to force them into a slightly more adult relationship, a bit more like we see later on in the show, with Dean having to try and accept Sam as his equal.**

**Naturally, Dean is going to have trouble with this at times, and by the end of this story, Dean will have to face several hard choices.**

**So will Sam.**

**Enjoy, and remember, reviews are love.**

**In other news, Confessions of a Boy King updated yesterday, and I love love love the update, it's based off of a prompt I received from DomBird, originally earmarked to be a How To Fix A Winchester chapter, but it fit so well in my confessions project that they graciously allowed me to use it there. And if you are reading Tuesday's Child, I added a tag, as a separate one shot, called A Space Shaped Like Home, yesterday, prompted by another reader wanting to know what had happened to a character who had a cameo at the end of chapter four of Tuesday's Child.**

**All the others will probably see updates tomorrow, at some point.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not Mine**

**Prisoner Of War- Chapter Twenty-Seven**

"**Life On Fire"**

Sam walked along the highway aimlessly, furiously, not even trying to hitch a ride. John would be livid if he knew what Sam was doing, but Sam didn't really care at this point.

Because now Dean _knew_.

Oh, he didn't know everything, of course. Hell, he didn't even know anything, really. He still didn't know about their mother and the demon's blood and their father and his journal and about their secret little brother, and, oh, yeah, that Sam was _EVIL_, but now he knew...enough.

He knew about how Sam felt, had seen the darkness in Sam tonight. Sam had been trying so hard to lock it all down, hide it away, behind school, behind the job, behind the hunt, but now Dean knew...

Knew how Sam felt, how much he hated everything and everyone, knew how much he despaired about it all.

Sam had been striving for independence his whole life and he'd practically had an emotional breakdown in Dean's lap tonight.

Maybe Dean didn't know the truth about just _what_ Sam was, but now he sure as hell had a better idea of _who_ Sam was, and it made him feel naked, exposed, like every last_ 'fine' _he'd laid as a barrier between himself and the darkness had been ripped away like a bandage and now all the truth of Sam was bleeding out on the pavement.

Sam had said things tonight he'd barely let himself even think, but God, Dean had made him so angry.

What did Dean want? Sam wasn't fighting with John, wasn't complaining about hunting or training or moving or school. John said hunt, Sam hunted, Dean said time to go, Sam freaking went.

Why wasn't it enough?

What hurt the worst, though, was the insidious thought that, for John, it seemed like maybe it _was_ enough.

John seemed happy with Sam 2.0, seemed content with a Sam who didn't argue, didn't complain, didn't think or feel or hesitate.

As far as Sam pushed himself, John seemed to be okay with it. John seem to like the Sam who didn't care what happened to himself, seemed satisfied with the robotic shell Sam knew he had become.

John acted like Sam's new outlook was the best thing that could be hoped for, and since he was the only other person who knew the truth, Sam couldn't help but wonder it perhaps it was.

If this new outlook on life was wrong, shouldn't Sam's own father be upset, be worried?

But the thing was, he _wasn't_.

John was satisfied with his newest soldier.

It was Dean who was worried, Dean who was upset.

But Sam could remember a thousand times when that pained, 'oh-please-not-again' expression would cross his brother's face, whenever Sam would go head to head with John.

Wasn't that why Dean had left Sam alone to go help Caleb in South Carolina? It wasn't so John and Sam could 'bond', it was so John could lay down the law and adjust Sam's attitude, whether or not Sam had wanted to be adjusted.

It had just worked better than anyone expected, though only Sam knew the reason why.

If he closed his eyes, he would be back there in an instant, that awful, soul shattering night he'd learned the truth about himself, about the monster that lived in his skin, hid in his veins, lurked behind his eyes.

He'd been so close, that night, to just _ending_ it, had loaded the gun, had been only a heartbeat from pulling the trigger.

Only two things stopped him.

The knowledge that if he committed suicide, he would certainly go to hell, and it would be a one-way ticket, where as if he stayed, perhaps he could earn some form of redemption. It had seemed like a slim hope at the time, and now it seemed even slimmer, but it was all he had.

The second thing was Dean, and his certainty that John would never willingly breathe a word of the truth to Dean.

Dean would simply think that Sam had quit on him, had given up on him, on their brotherhood. He'd think Sam had chosen the cowards way out, and then no one would be left to watch Dean's back.

That, more than anything, had helped Sam hold on by the skin of his teeth as he spent the next few days walking and eating and sleeping and not feeling any of it, a living zombie, as he tried to piece his shattered life, his shattered identity into some semblance of old Sam, someone able to walk and talk and be the best brother he could to Dean.

He'd spent hours and hours jogging and sparring and training robotically, all the while battling those words in his head, beating back his own personal demons, because he had known that Dean could never learn the truth, or he'd be forced to end Sam himself, like the monster Sam was.

He'd decided then and there to throw himself totally and completely into the hunt, into the family business, clinging to the desperate hope that some part of him was salvageable, could, in fact, be good, if he just worked hard enough, fought long enough.

Maybe if he saved ten people, maybe if he killed one hundred monsters,_ he didn't know_, could only hope that someone out there somewhere was keeping score and that perhaps there was a chance for him to earn redemption.

He had known it would be hard, if not impossible. How did one seek forgiveness for being an abomination, how did you learn to be human when it turned out you had actually been a monster your entire life?

In one fell swoop, he'd given up every dream he'd ever had, of college and kids and family and safety. He'd given up on friends and love and the right to tomorrow. He'd accepted that for something like him, only the present was a certainty, and that he had to do his best to beat down the evil inside of him.

From the tone of his father's journal, the loathing and fear and bitterness, he'd assumed John would be the one most threatened by Sam's new attitude, would be the one to push back, to challenge the idea that Sam could be a useful hunter, could somehow manage to save people.

He'd never expected Dean to fight him, not on this. His whole life, Dean had practically begged him to stop fighting their lifestyle, but when he had, Dean had seemed almost threatened by it.

"AHHHHHHHHHHH" He screamed out into the night, fury still coursing through him, and a bitter sadness. He'd hoped, deep down, that when he'd done his best to become the model hunter John had always wanted, it would create a connection between him and Dean, a bridge across the echoing chasm that now lived between Sam and Dean, at least in Sam's own mind.

He knew he could never be comfortable in his role of protected and loved little brother, knew that the murder of their mother, knew that being the reason Dean was a homeless wanderer would always be between them as brothers, an elephant in the room that Sam could never ignore, even when Dean was oblivious.

He'd thought perhaps, as a hunter, he could somehow find a measure of comfort in a relationship with Dean, that as his partner on the job, his equal in the hunt, Sam could feel like Dean's brother again, or at least as close as he'd ever be able to again.

As Dean's partner, as the person who had his back and helped him, perhaps Sam could also somehow earn the right to be in Dean's life also.

Redemption.

But Dean didn't seem to want a Sam who was willing to do whatever it took to get the job done, at least, he didn't seem to want it from Sam. Sam just didn't know what to do anymore.

He'd done everything, everything that had been asked of him.

And yet, somehow, he was still wrong.

'Be good, or be good at it." The voice whispered in his mind again as he gasped in deep breaths of the cool night air.

He couldn't do it.

He couldn't let go of his only chance at redemption just because Dean decided he missed the old Sam.

Sam knew he was right, that every damn thing he'd said had been right. Hunters died, and it was brutal and messy and far too young. Every hunter knew it, Dean had to know it, on some level, and yet, he persisted with this crazy belief that somehow it would never happen to them.

But Sam knew if he had any chance at earning redemption, he couldn't be afraid to die for the cause. He couldn't let fear slow his steps, make him hesitate, make him doubt.

He remembered the words from a book he'd read, several years ago, called "Dune".

Fear is the mind killer.

Sam knew he had to let go of the fear the same way he had let go off his hopes and dreams and future.

Sam's life was on fire, and if he were very lucky, he'd be able to save the one thing that mattered most.

His Soul.

Sam had had let go of his life before, of who he'd been before, it was simply a matter of survival. Sam couldn't be that little boy who was angry over missing a math test, not when he now knew it was only a matter of time before something happened, and Sam turned dark-side.

Sam was fighting for salvation, and that meant that he had had to let go of...pretty much everything else he had been before.

Now Dean would have to, also.

Because Sam could never be that person again, could never un-know what he now knew, could never forget.

Sam had to be both more and less than he was before, and Dean would have to let him, or else...

Dean would have to let him go.

Because Sam couldn't handle feeling guilty over not being what Dean wanted, couldn't handle anymore guilt, couldn't do everything that had ever been asked of him and still feel like a disappointment.

Headlights shone in the darkness from behind him, and as the eighteen wheeler slowed, an older man in a trucker's hat leaned out.

"Where you headed, kid?" He called.

Sam swallowed. "South." He replied.

Wasn't that the truth?


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Hey everyone. Sorry, this update is shorter than I'd like, but any update beats no update, right? I've been battling the mother of all headaches today, and I spent the last two hours at the office in sunglasses. The medicine finally kicked in, but I'm a little sleepy, hence the short chapter.**

**Anyway, Dean was pretty insistent that he get a say in the matter, so here's his point of view, with a little bit of actual plot on the end. **

**Sorry, the fight's just taking longer to rebound from than I expected, but with an argument like that, perhaps that's for the best. I promise, this story will get back to longer chapters, I'm just a little off my game this week.**

**Reviews are love, and you guys are really amazing, this has over two hundred now, and I am over the moon about it.**

**The poem Sam and the Librarian quote is by Robert Frost, and it's kinda haunting, if you ask me. It's called "Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening". I'm not into poetry, but the last verse is really something, one of those things that stick in your head, you know? It seemed pretty canon to me that a librarian might randomly quote poetry, and if anyone would recognize that poem, it was Sam.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Prisoner of War – Chapter Twenty Eight**

"**Promises To Keep"**

Sam almost went through with it. When that trucker had hung out the door, asking him where he was headed, he'd almost replied with the words "_Anywhere_. Anywhere but here."

For one moment, in his mind, he let it all go. The waiting and the hiding and the darkness and the fear.

For one moment, in his own mind, anyway, Sam Winchester was _free_.

But the bonds of brotherhood, of family and blood are strong, and between the Winchester's they were stronger than most.

So an hour later, when the trucker pulled up outside the east end of the University of Indiana campus, Sam thanked him politely, and went to wait on the library steps for the building to open in forty-five minutes or so.

He was exhausted, he hadn't slept since...well, before Merit, he guessed, but though he was exhausted, he wasn't _tired_.

His mind was far more awake than his body, racing through a thousand things a mimute, the look on Dean's face, the freeing and frightening way it had felt to say those words, the worry and the fear and the _what-happens-now_?

Would Dean pretend the fight had never happened?

That was standard Winchester code of conduct, after all.

But recently Dean had become much more touchy-feely, asking about Sam's health, his needs, his emotions.

The more Sam had needed distance between them in order to keep functioning, the more Dean had to draw him in tighter again.

What was Dean thinking about all of this? If he was honest with himself, a part of him had expected Dean to already be here when Sam arrived, but the library steps had been empty, the Impala no where to be seen.

Perhaps Dean had actually taken Sam's words to heart. Perhaps he was done with Sam and all the trouble he caused. Perhaps he was tired of wasting all his time and energy on a losing bet.

Sam hadn't actually expected Dean to let him leave, to let him hitch hike.

Perhaps Dean was simply admitting that Sam was grown now. Perhaps, when this case was done, Dean would expect Sam to start earning his keep, buying his own clothes and food.

A sick feeling twisted in Sam's stomach at the idea that Dean might have finally given up on him, but he knew it was for the best.

Sam was poison, he was _toxic_. The further away Dean stayed, phsychically and emotionally, the safer Dean was.

It was time Sam stopped depending on him, on John, on anyone.

"My goodness, you're here early, young man!" The surprised librarian greeted him as he came up the steps, keys to the building in hand.

Sam stood, stretching out his stiff muscles. "I promised my partner I'd finish some research." He said.

The librarian nodded, smiling to himself. "Ah, yes, promises to keep..."

"And miles to go before I sleep..." Sam finished the last line of the poem in response as the librarian let him in.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Dean paced the room angrily, throwing himself on his bed.

A moment later he would be up again, pacing yet more as Sam's words screamed through his mind.

"_What kind of broke-down fairy tale are you living in, Dean?"_

What the hell was Sam thinking, saying those kinds of things?

"_Everything ends bloody, and hunters sooner than most!"_

It was like the kid was asking for something bad to happen, like he was tempting fate.

"_What do you want from me, Dean?"_

Did Sam hate their life so much he actually hoped he'd die? Sure, the gig sucked some times, but they'd be bored senseless with the apple-pie life.

"_I'm not going to get to go to college, I won't get married or have kids..."_

Sure, sometimes Dean felt a little wistful about things that could never be, but he always understood how important their job was. They protected all the people who didn't know how dark the world could really be. And once you knew the kinds of things they did, you couldn't exactly UN-know them.

"_How many hunts do I get before I get unlucky?"_

It was like Sam didn't even trust Dean anymore, couldn't count on him to keep him safe.

"_People aren't meant to be raised like this!"_

Sure, their upbringing had been unconventional, but it had prepared them for the monsters...

"_Hunt or be hunted, kill or be killed."_

Yeah, okay, sure. It could definitely feel like that, out on a hunt, adrenaline pumping because you didn't know where the monster was.

"_We don't get happy endings."_

Sam didn't get it, didn't see. That's why they had to stick together. No, Dean wasn't delusional. He understood it was possible for them to get hurt, or get killed, but people died every day, in car wrecks, from cancer, from heart attacks.

Sometimes they were killed by monsters. After all, hunters existed to protect the innocent, because being innocent wasn't enough to protect someone from the monsters.

Sam could have had a perfectly normal, boring life, and still ended up hurt by a monster, it happened all the time.

Look at Lucas, and all of Constance's victims. Look at the couple in the orchard tonight.

Look at their mom.

Innocence wasn't protection, but information, knowledge, training, all those things were.

What John had done, he'd done to make them strong, and if Sam could just accept that, he'd see that it had worked. Sam acted like Dean didn't trust him.

Of course Dean trusted Sam. Outside of John, Sam was the person in the world Dean trusted the most to have his back.

Sam had proven time and again that he would come for Sam, at the old farmhouse, when Hope had almost killed him, even tonight at the orchard, when he'd covered for Dean.

Dean wasn't upset that Sam had protected him (well, okay, maybe a little, but he was the big brother, dammit) as much as he was upset that Sam seemed to forget that Dean was always going to come for him too.

What the fuck had happened to rip this glaring hole between them, between their brother hood? Sam was practically a stranger, the kid Dean had raised seemingly...gone.

Surely this couldn't all just be about South Carolina and Sam's need for independence and self reliance. Not unless something had gone seriously wrong while Dean was away and no one had ever told him.

Was that it?

Had something happened to wreck havoc on Sam's faith? John hadn't spoke a word about taking any hunts, and neither had Sam, but training alone didn't account for the sudden, total disconnect in the brother Dean left and the one he returned to, the one with a chip on his shoulder and a _devil-may-care-becuase-I-sure-as-hell-don't attitude._

And Dean was sick of it. He was tired of worrying about Sam being hurt or sick or hungry or tired and not telling him. There was a difference between complaining and letting your partner (BIG BROTHER) know that you needed something. Taking care of Sam was part of Dean's job, probably the biggest part, and he was damn good at it, when Sam let him.

He was tired of watching Sam willingly walk into the line of fire instead of using that frightening intellect he knew the kid possessed.

Dean stood up, dressing quickly.

Sam had told him how he felt, and now Dean was going to find his sorry ass and return the favor, because, dammit, he was Dean Winchester, and nothing was going to stop him from taking care of his family. Yeah, maybe hunters did die young, and bloody, but not John. Not Sam.

Because Dean wasn't going to let them. Sam could label it wishful thinking or whatever the hell else he wanted to. Dean would just keep on doing what he did best, which was take care of his sorry ass.

Sam was smart, eventually he'd catch on to the fact that they were brothers, and whatever the hell was going on in Sam's head right now, Dean would still be there when he got through it, most likely with a smirk and an "I told you so."

Sam and John were all Dean had left, and whatever had spooked his kid, Dean was in it for the long haul. Eventually he'd beat it into the kid's skull that they were in this together, and Dean would keep him safe.

That was what he did.

That was how this story ended.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam sunk into the piles of research, quickly losing time, thankfully doing so, in fact.

The Latin and the lore were soothing.

Sam knew how this worked, understood the rules to this game.

Words were words, they didn't judge, didn't feel disappointed or misled.

Words were the same whether you were a hunter or a monster, and at times research felt like the only part of Sam's life that hadn't changed, hadn't shattered like the fun house mirror the whole rest of his existence had been.

The words and the books and the pages and the notes just didn't care, and when Sam was alone, like he was now, Sam didn't have to care either.

"You looked like you could use this." The librarian was back, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. He held it out to Sam, and Sam accepted gratefully. "Oh, thanks, I mean, you didn't have too..."

The older man smiled. "It's quite alright. You were the early bird this morning, you even beat the coffee cart. And I'll admit, you look like you could use it."

Sam grimaced ruefully. "My...friend and I got into a fight last night, and I knew I wasn't going to sleep for a while."

The man nodded. "An excellent reason to go to the library, though, I must admit, I can think of few reasons that aren't excellent. And, who knows, perhaps your friend will show up sooner or later."

Sam smiled ruefully. "I wouldn't count on it. It was a pretty heated argument."

The man nodded. "Well, you do what you have to do. I've got to get back to the circulation desk. Just come get me if you need any other help."

"Thanks." Sam said, blowing on his coffee to try and cool it. "I will."

The man left, and Sam sat the cup down to finish cooling, pulling over the next book. It was actually the book he'd been about to start the night before, and Sam pulled out his small pad of paper, realizing he might need to translate some of the Latin.

A few minutes later, he made a note, then another, starting to get excited. Without thinking, he reached down an picked up the cup, taking a large drink.

He made a last note, underlining the word for good measure.

The tree. They had to find the tree and burn it. That was the only way.

Sam blinked, realizing he must be more tired than he had realized, because instead of helping, the coffee seemed to be making him...more tired.

Eyes widening sluggishly, he looked around, hearing the librarian's footsteps returning.

Knowing he had only a few seconds left, he tore of his page of notes, trying to think of somewhere Dean would see it, when he came.

If he came.

With clumsy fingers, he folded the note into the shape of an airplane, tossing it across the room just as the librarian's voice could be heard. He was speaking to another man, but their words were blurry and distant...

"Took you long enough. I can't exactly lift him myself...:


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Okay, finally, a chapter with a little more ass behind it, and we have concluded the Scarecrow episode. **

**So, I know some of you might not like the ending of this chapter, but classic Winchester canon says actions speak louder than words, so I don't know that Dean would pick another fight with a wounded, tired Sam, no matter how wound up Dean is. I genuinely think Dean has settled in to battle whatever it is that's haunting Sam, even though he doesn't know what it is, and he doesn't want to spook Sam in the meantime. He wants Sam comfortable, wants him talking, not running, so that is his reasoning behind his actions in the next few chapters, as he will seem...compliant, I guess, but really, he's doing...you guessed it. Research. On Sammy. Not being sneaky, per se, just determined. Dean's decided that something has hurt his brother, and he is going to find it and end it, and if he has to humor Sam in the meantime, he will, to keep him safe. (But, shhh! Don't tell Sam...)**

**Another reviewer mentioned how glad they were that Dean didn't physically hurt Sam, the way he has a habit of doing when he's mad on the show, and my main reasoning is Sam's age, and the fact that this Sam's never left for Stanford. This Dean has always taken care of this Sam, and I don't think it would occur to him to casually get physical with him the way the boys do in the show. I personally think that was probably a change in their relationship in canon directly related to Sam's leaving, and Dean emotionally distancing himself from Sam because of it.**

**So, last night All The Pretty Monsters updated, and yesterday morning, Tuesday's Child updated, so lots of fun stuff to read.**

**Reviews are Love! (Tuesday's Child isn't scheduled to update again until Saturday night, but if it hits 60+ reviews in the meantime, I'll try to work it in earlier!)**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**Prisoner Of War – Chapter Twenty-Nine**

"**Paper Airplanes"**

Dean stormed into the library, heading instinctively for the table he and Sam had sat at yesterday, before the whole Merit fiasco, but the table was empty, top cleared, chairs neatly pushed in.

Scowling, he began systematically searching the library, top to bottom, table by table, room by room. He checked the stacks, he checked the reference room, the media room, he even broke into two separate storage rooms. He checked the coffee cart out on the quad (twice).

He questioned every person in there with a name tag, and a few who didn't.

He was starting to oscillate between extremely pissed annoyance and deep-seated fear.

Sam wasn't there.

Had, according to everyone he spoke to, never been there.

Then where the hell was he?

Dean had made sure to drive with an eye open for his brother, in case he hadn't caught a ride. He'd driven the exact route Sam would have taken, and he'd checked the campus surrounding the library.

Had Sam lied? Had he gotten fed up and just...disappeared? Ran away? Was this like that time he had run away to Flagstaff?

Was he back at their motel room, right now?

No.

Sam had said he'd be at the library, and a thousand things might have changed about Sam, but not this. Sam wouldn't purposefully lie about his whereabouts, not during a case. Sam knew that Dean would call out the marines (or, at least one ex-marine) if he went AWOL during a hunt.

But dammit, why wasn't the kid answering his phone? Dean had already left three messages, each one significantly more irritated than the last.

But his gut was telling him something was wrong, and he was through ignoring his instincts, at least when it came to Sam. His instincts had been telling him for weeks now that something was wrong with his brother, seriously wrong, at last night's fight had been the end result.

So Dean was done with the bullshit. He'd let all the other stupid shit get in the way of the one basic truth about Dean Winchester.

He took care of Sam.

And right now, every last screaming instinct was telling him that not only had Sam been here, at library, but that he would have sat at the same damn table.

But what about the books? If Sam had discovered an answer, wouldn't he have called Dean?

Maybe the librarian from last night had seen Sam, or helped him access the books, since the ones written in Latin were no doubt locked up at night.

He returned (once again) to the circulation desk.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for one of the librarians, an older gentleman who helped me last night?" Dean asked as politely as he could.

The girl behind the counter popped her gum at him. "Oh? Maury? He's only a part-timer. Retired last spring. He was here earlier, I think, to grab a coat or something he left behind, but he left hours ago."

Dean thanked her grudgingly and went back to his table thoughtfully. This place was the most likely place Sam would have went, because no matter what, Sam 2.0 had one obsession.

Finishing the case.

He wouldn't have left without an answer, wouldn't have left period, in fact. Not without letting Dean know. Fight or no fight, responding to calls and pages were drilled into them by John.

SO why would Sam leave?

AN uncomfortable thought crept into Dean's mind.

What if Sam hadn't wanted to leave?

Sure, they were several hours from Merit, but the townspeople there had just had their livelihoods destroyed, which could make for some bitter animosity. Or it could be one of the hundreds of other normal and paranormal monsters out in the real world, but again, Dean's gut was telling him this had to do with the case.

He began searching the small priviate research room they had used last night. He got on his hands and knees, looking along the ground, checking under the table. He checked the book shelves, he turned over the chairs.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for, was, in fact starting to wonder if he shouldn't just high tail it to Merit and find his brother, but Sam had come here for a reason and that reason still stood.

They needed to find a way to kill Cowan.

Sam would have focused on that first and foremost. He would have been an easy target, though, tired from a night without sleep, focused on translating the difficult Latin texts-

Dean paused mid thought, looking around suddenly. Sam always made notes when he was translating. He personally didn't need them, as well as he could read Latin, but it was a firmly established habit, as neither John nor Dean read it half as well.

Dean checked the trash, but the can was completely empty, as if someone had replaced the bad just that day...

Looking around in mounting frustration and worry, he spied something, lodged in a corner a one of the room's bookshelves.

A paper airplane.

Dean could remember teaching Sam how to make one, how they had used to sail notes to one another silently to keep occupied whenever John needed quiet for research.

Striding over, he ripped it from where it had lodged, opening it with shaking hands.

If Sam had felt the need to leave a hidden message for Dean, then he really was in trouble.

The notes were wobbly, as if the writer had been tired, becoming nearly unlegible near the end, which worried Dean because Sam's handwriting was normally extremely neat.

In fact, the poor writing escalated so quickly Dean wondered if Sam had gotten a hand cramp, or fallen asleep...

Or been drugged.

"Son of a bitch. Oh, I am ripping someone's lungs out." He said lowly.

_'Cowan's yearly cycle lasts approximately three days, the day before, during, and after the full moon. He cannot be killed by destroying his avatar. Instead, the tree he winters in during his hibernation must be destroyed.'_

And underneath, underlined several times with heavy, wavering lines was one word.

_'fire'_

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Sam scowled fiercely at the the man and woman, the owner's of the cafe, as they finished chaining him to a tree near the heart of the orchard.

What he saw next actually shocked him, however.

A man in a Sheriff's uniform was frog-marching a tied and bound Emily at gun point, while Scottie, her Aunt and Uncle all watched dispassionatley.

"Aunt June, Uncle Harley? Why are you doing this?" She cried, clearly confused and frightened and Sam felt true loathing for her relatives.

They were going to sacrifice their own niece to some pagan monster just to ensure a good harvest.

"Try to understand, honey. It's for the best. Everyone has to sacrifice sometimes." The man was saying regretfully.

Sam wanted to spit in his face.

"You're crazy? What are you doing? Is this what happened to those people he was looking for?" She said, jerking her head towards Sam as her aunt snapped the chains around her wrists.

"I wish it didn't have to be you, Emily." Her uncle was saying remorsefully.

She shook her head disbelievingly. "I...I thought you loved me?" She said, as tears streaked down her cheeks.

Her aunt sighed. "That's what love means, Emily. It means sacrifice."

Her words chilled Sam to the born, as thoughts of his mother shot across his mind, intermixed with the echo of Constance's words.

'We always betray what we love'.

After a moment, the townspeople left, and Emily turned wide, frightened eyes to Sam.

"Oh, please, tell me I am dreaming..." She said.

Sam swallowed. "Short version? You remember how you said the town was blessed? Well, more like it was protected. By an ancient pagan god, named Cowan. The townspeople have kept him trapped here for centuries, and every year a sacrifice has to be made, or the harvest fails."

Her eyes widened. "What do you mean, sacrifice?"

Sam said nothing, and after a moment, she shook her head. "No. No way, this is crazy, YOU'RE crazy..."

"You're chained to an apple tree." Sam pointed out bluntly, as he started once again pulling at his bonds. The sun set early this late in the year, and they needed to get out of there soon.

"Crap. Crap-crap-crap!" She whispered, looking around in fear.

"Just keep watching the scarecrow, and tell me if it moves." Sam said, continuing to twist his wrists. He could feel blood start to well around the cold edges of the metal, but he refused to let that deter him. If Dean came to the library looking for him in time, if he found the message, if he got here in time, then he might be able to help Sam and Emily.

But the sun was going down, and Sam couldn't afford to take chances, not with Emily's life on the line, too.

"So, what's the plan?" She whispered.

"Get out." He answered shortly, strainng again with all his might. If he had his lock picks ( and a third hand) he might be able to pick them, but though he was good, he wasn't have as fast as Dean.

"Then, find wherever the fuck this thing holds up in the winter and torch it. Bye-bye monster, bye-bye town."

"Holds up? You mean, like, hibernating?" She asked, as the sun finished setting.

"Yeah, a tree, most likely. Something old, real old." He said, grinning in triumph when one wrist started moving easier than the other, the blood acting like a lubricant.

"The first tree." Emily suddenly volunteered, and Sam paused, looking over at her.

"It's near here, just a little closer to the center of the orchard. It's old, legend says it came over with the first immigrants." She added.

"That'd be it." He agreed.

"But how are we going to get out?" She asked fearfully.

Painfully, he thought to himself. There was no way he was getting his hand out of this cuff without dislocating half the bones in his hand.

This was going to suck.

Trying to calm down Emily, however, he said. "Right before they grabbed me, I left a message for my brother. He's on his way."

She frowned. "How do you know? What kind of message?"

"Paper Airplane..." He muttered, bracing himself as best he could to yank with all the force he could on his hand. He just hoped he didn't tear half of it off in the process.

Just as he was about to to go for it, Emily froze, eyes widening in terror. "What was that?"

"Can you see the scarecrow?" Sam asked urgently.

"Nope. Which means we better hustle." A familiar voice said, and Sam wanted to scream and laugh and cry all at once.

Dean was here.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Dean knelt quickly beside his brother, laying his flare gun beside Sam's legs as he went to work with his lock pick on the first cuff.

"Scarecrow's gone, we gotta move!" Dean ordered urgently, as the first cuff popped open. Dean swore violently when he saw Sam's bloody wrist.

"Someone's losing a limb over this..." He said darkly.

Sam had already grabbed up the flare gun, doing his best to cover Dean and Emily both while Dean freed his other wrist. Dean swore lowly when he saw the second one was even worse than the first.

"Get Emily, I'll cover you." Sam said, eyes everywhere.

Dean wanted to check the rest of him out, look for other, hidden damage, but he knew Sam was right. They had a monster on the loose and a victim in harm's way.

He knelt beside Emily, starting on her restraints.

"Who the hell are you guys?" She said.

"We help." Dean answered shortly.

Suddenly, she shrieked.

"Dean, DROP!" Sam yelled commandingly, and Dean did, as he felt the whoosh of the flare shoot past over his head.

The scarecrow had come up behind him silently, but now it was making a keening, creaking noise, like an asthmatic eighty-year old trying to scream.

"That won't be enough, Emily, show me the tree!" Sam yelled.

"Not now, Sam!" Dean countered. "Now we get out and torch it in the morning!"

Sam looked at him inscrutably, and for a moment Dean was afraid he was going to run off into the orchard anyway, but then he nodded jerkily, and Dean sighed a silent sigh of relief.

That relief was short lived, however, when they got to the gate of the grove.

Scottie, June and Harley were all they, blocking the way.

And they were armed.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Sam raised his arms instinctively, trying to warn Dean and shield Emily simultaneously.

"Please, Uncle Harley, just let us go, it's not to late!" Emily was crying.

Tearfully, the man said- "I'm sorry, Em, but you have to let him-" Harley's words cut off with a guggle and June screamed and Emily launched herself into Sam's arms reflexively.

Cowan had come up behind Harley, thrusting a clawed hand into his back. As Harley struggled limply and June screamed, Cowan's other arm grabbed her, and as he dragged them into the night, Scottie ran off in terror.

Sam wrapped his arms around a sobbing Emily as he stared bleakly over her head at his brother.

"Now, can we torch the damn tree? He asked tiredly.

A few hours later, Sam sat numbly in their motel room as Dean examined and re-wrapped his wrists. They had stopped bleeding, but Sam was going to get some funny looks as school the next few days if he wasn't careful.

Dean hadn't said a word about anything, the fight, Merit, Cowan, even Emily had been a closed subject once they'd stuck her on a bus to Blue Earth. Pastor Jim specialized in helping people like her, people who's lives had been upended by the supernatural.

Sam was tired.

Really really tired.

He hadn't slept in more than two days, he'd been shot, drugged, chained and pretty much everything else, and right now it was everything he could do not to sway where he sat, as Dean's lips pressed together unhappily as he surveyed Sam's wounds.

"Shoulda torched the whole town." He muttered.

"Won't need to." Sam mumbled tiredly. "By this time next year, it'll be a ghost town."

Dean looked at him shrewdly. "Go to sleep, Sammy." He ordered.

Sam raised his eyes to Dean's, to tired to be careful, to pick and choose and dance around every word.

"Knew you'd come. Knew you'd find the airplane." Sam mumbled as he flopped back on the bed, too tired to move up any further.

"Yeah? That's not what you weren't saying last night." Dean said pointedly.

Sam sighed, letting his eyes close, to exhausted to be anything but honest and to the point.

"Didn't say you wouldn't save me. Said you couldn't forever..." He sighed. "No one wins anyway..." He muttered disjointedly.

"Come again?" Dean answered, actually sounding amused as Sam felt something being laid over him.

"Life." He said, yawning without opening his eyes. "People act like you can win, like it's a game. But the thing about life is..." He yawned again, rolling over as Dean killed the lights. "No one gets out of it alive anyway."


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: Okay, and here we go, next chapter of Prisoner of War, live. So, time wise, we are now in November, and I am segueing into the episode that was the most popular choice in the poll, After School Special. This is naturally the remix, but let's have some fun, shall we?**

**In other news, Tuesday's Child updated yesterday morning, still having lots of fun with that project. All The Pretty Monsters also updated yesterday, and the shit is about to hit the fan there, pardon my french. And Friday, How To Fix A Winchester updated, and I continue to get some amazing prompts for that one, so fun-fun-fun.**

**Reviews Are Love!**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**Prisoner Of War – Chapter Thirty**

"**Attack Of The Nerds"**

Halloween came and went, the last days of October fading away in a state of uneasy truce between the two youngest Winchesters.

John, not completely unaware of the tension, chose to ignore it, as it was neither aiding or hindering his own personal goals at the moment, of which Dean, still, to his great frustration, remained untold.

With their father and the other hunters coming and going at greater frequency, and the weather getting colder by the day, Sam and Dean began to settle into the rhythm of a steady stream of small salt and burns, week end jobs usually, that had Sam back in school and Dean back at work by Monday.

It should have thrilled Sam, to be in the same place for so long, the same classes, same teachers, getting to start and finish entire actual projects. It should have thrilled him that, despite his refusal to join the basketball team (or, in fact, even try out), people continued to view him as quasi-popular, sitting next to him unexpectedly at lunch, offering to partner with him in class, even including him in party invitations.

It seemed like, the less Sam let himself care about his school and classmates, the more desirable he appeared, his previous loner status now transformed into 'cool' and 'aloof'. He did little with this new power, avoiding the parties, the games and the invitations.

He didn't date, though he certainly could have.

He did, however, get a job. It was part-time, only a couple of hours a week, helping the owner of the local bookstore stock and unload trucks. The owner didn't need much help, but she was growing older, and the heavy lifting that was so easy for Sam was getting to be too much for her. She paid him probably too much, but she had taken a liking to him, with his gentle manners and intelligent eyes.

So, really, Sam should have been thrilled. But inside him was a clock, ticking away the days, the hours and minutes, waiting for...something.

He didn't decorate his bedroom, because what was the point when the clock inside his mind was always screaming at him that he was only moments away from the next tragedy. He didn't take up the offers of friendship or romance.

Some days, the ticking clock inside his head was so loud that just sitting in class was unbearable, and he'd find himself skipping, finally putting good use to his forging abilities when it came to John's name. He was still a good student, polite and obviously well read, and most of the teachers felt sympathetic for the tall young man with the migraines.

So, on every level, Sam should have been thrilled. The same house, the same school, friends, girls, and after school job at a bookstore.

But all he felt was...disconnected. Like he had somehow started viewing his life from the outside, like someone reading the prologue of a book, just waiting for the tragic event to occur that would set the rest of the book into motion.

Sam waited.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean watched.

He made the right noises of frustration, when he wasn't allowed to sit in on John's meetings with the hunters who continued to use their home as a home base of sorts.

And he was frustrated, but whatever John was up to didn't seem as urgent as their normal case. Dean got the sense that the hunters were gathering information more than they were hunting anything.

Dean could care less about the research. When the time came, all he was interested in was the action, so he decided to let that sleeping dog lie for now.

He complained about the job, though secretly he came to enjoy it, the boundaries and edges of a well defined project. A car came in, and he fixed it, and then it left again. There was no doubt, no uncertainty. No fear that he had missed some crucial element, and now someone would die because of it.

They were just cars, just ordinary, boring cars, and though a part of Dean was screaming, demanding the adrenalin rush the po-dunk hunts his father had been assigning them failed to provide, there was a certain charm to fixing something.

But mostly, Dean watched.

Watched John and the other hunters, with their secretive eyes and suddenly cut off sentences. He watched them come and go and wondered sometimes if they were actually chasing their tales, the way it felt to him, on the outside sometimes.

He watched how John interacted with Sam, though, honestly, now that Dean was making a point to try to look at those interactions objectively, it didn't take long.

Now that Sam was no longer combating John at every step, John seemed to take him into consideration very little. Sam went to school, Sam went on the assigned hunts, Sam stayed out of the other hunters way.

John seemed...not pleased, if John were honest. Relieved, perhaps. Like Sam had been a problem he had doubted he could fix, but now that he apparently had, John could move onto more important things.

Dean found himself trying to pinpoint the shift, just when this...non-relationship between the oldest and youngest Winchester had occurred. They didn't fight, there was no battle of wills. There was no yelling and bitter, unhappy looks, no threatened orders.

Sam did his training now everyday without so much as word to the contrary, even when it rained, even when Dean found himself thinking of creative excuses to avoid his own.

Instead, between them there was...well, nothing.

Dean could remember when it had been different, when Sam had been younger.

He could remember their father rocking Sam softly, when he was sick, one or two perhaps, still too little for Dean to have taken over full responsibility of him.

He could remember John smiling when Dean showed him that Sammy could walk. He could remember the laundry list of instructions John had given Dean when Dean had first taken over the day to day care of his little brother, as John's hunts took him further and further afield.

First and foremost, watch out for Sammy.

But when had it changed?

Dean could still remember the horrible night the Striga attacked, how panicked and furious John had been at the time.

But as he searched his memory, he found himself harder and harder pressed to come up with more instances like that.

John had never been overly affectionate, but Dean had never doubted for a second that John loved them.

But now, looking back, he found he believed it possible that Sam might not realize it. He'd been younger when John had been involved in his care, most of his memories were probably of Dean.

Dean had always been okay with that, had always felt slightly proprietary about Sam. Had, if he were honest with himself, always felt a little threatened when another adult, like Bobby or Pastor Jim, had tried to step in and help with Sam's day to day care and needs, because Sam was Dean's little brother.

He had always assumed that John and Sam's distance had to do with the fact that Dean provided for most of Sam's needs, and Sam was to little to hunt, so the distance seemed natural.

Then, when Sam had started hunting, the fighting had started, and the distance had seemed even more natural.

But now, here they were, in the same house for weeks, no fighting, no prolonged absences, and Dean was forced to admit that Sam and John were...well, they weren't anything.

John didn't talk about Sam unless he needed Sam to do something, and Sam seemed perfectly happy to save nothing at all about John period.

Dean felt like, once again, the fragile bridge between the two of them, but this time he wasn't trying to break up the fights.

He was trying to break the silence.

And the more he watched Sam, the more alarmed he became.

Because Sam seemed so...normal.

He went to school and he went to work and he went to hunts, but it was like, underneath it all, the real Sam was asleep, his body just on auto-pilot. He ate when someone cooked, he showered and did his homework and dug up graves, all with the same, absent demeanor.

Dean wondered if Sam was just waiting for the shoe to drop.

Was he waiting for Dean to get mad and try to continue their argument? Was he waiting to see if Dean was going to get John involved?

Sam didn't talk about the fight, didn't talk about school, didn't talk about John, didn't talk about anything.

It was like he had locked all his words away for some reason, and now he'd lost the key to finding them again.

Dean felt like screaming, some days, as they frog-marched through their make-believe lives, John going one way silently, and Sam the other just as wordlessly, and Dean felt like the fragile cord stretched between his family.

And all he could do was wait.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam was in class when it happened. He had almost missed it, in fact, had only been moments away from begging off for the rest of the day with another 'migraine'.

He was sitting in science class, at one of the lab tables, writing up the last of his notes on their finished experiment. Rebecca, his lab partner, kept shooting him flirty looks under lowered eyes, but they only made him more uncomfortable. He'd partnered with her to be polite, and in all fairness, she was much better than some at the lab work, she'd done her part. But Sam felt uncomfortable just the same, and he had started writing a little more quickly, when he felt the temperature suddenly drop.

Startled, he looked up, glancing automatically to the windows, even though the tingling, buzzing sense of something screaming in his head told him this was no draft.

This was a ghost.

In his damn science class.

What, were they coming to him now?

"Wow, who opened the window?" Rebecca said, shivering a little, and Sam knew the ghost was strong, because she wasn't the only one shifting uncomfortably.

Sam looked around quickly, knowing the ghost must be trying to manifest somehow, but seeing no overt sign of it.

What was it trying to do?

Suddenly, Alex, one of the smaller (and younger) kids in the class, launched himself at Tyler, whom he had been partnered with.

Sam knew Tyler tended to bully the other kids a little, but everyone had quickly picked up on the fact that Sam disliked it, so they didn't tend to do it in front of him.

Obviously, though, it was still happening in his absence.

"I'll kill you!" Alex shrieked, picked up the microscope and slamming it into Tyler's surprised face.

The entire class was stunned, motionless in disbelief, even the teacher, a twenty-year veteran.

Everyone but Sam.

Lunging forward, he wrapped his arms in a bear hug around Alex, just as the boy was about to start dumping lab chemicals on their fallen classmates.

Girls were screaming now, the teacher frantically calling the office, and one or two other guys had stepped forward to help Sam, and honestly, he needed it. Sam was in the best shape of his life, but Alex was thrashing wildly, like a man possessed, and Sam had a feeling that was exactly what was happening.

Finally, the three of them managed to wrestle Alex to the ground, and then suddenly the boy went limp, sobbing uncontrollably.

"What's...what's happening?" Tyler asked, as Rebecca held paper towels to his bleeding face.

The teacher knelt beside them. "Tyler, an ambulance is on it's way. The office has called the police, also, so anyone not hurt will need to stay at talk to the officers very quickly. Sam, that was quick thinking, thank you. He could have hump Tyler badly, those were acids he was going for. I don't think I could have stopped him." Her voice was shaking, badly, and Sam had a suspicion her retirement date had just jumped forward by a few years.

"Sam, you saved Tyler." Rebecca said, a thread of awe in her voice, as uniformed officers stormed into the room, quickly cuffing the still crying Alex.

Sam shook his head, uncomfortable with the attention most of his classmates were focusing on him.

"Nah, the other guys were right behind me..." He said, walking over gratefully to give his statement to the officer, glad to get away.

He gave his statement as quickly and succinctly as possible, though he did his best to make it sound like an emotional break down on Alex's part. The poor kid's life was probably ruined now, and it wasn't his fault, but Sam couldn't exactly explain that a ghost had made his classmate do it.

The best Alex could hope for now was that the authorities decided it was a mental issue that required treatment, instead of punishment.

Sam begged off the rest of the day, the teacher practically giving him her pass book, she was still so shaken and grateful.

Just as Sam was walking down the steps, trying to decide whether he should call Dean now, the Impala screeched to a halt in front of him.

Sam blinked, a little nonplussed.

Well, that was fast.

Never let it be said that Dean let grass grow under him.

"Sam, you okay? Police scanner said officers had been dispatched, some kid attacking others?" Dean said anxiously, openly examining his younger brother.

"Uh...well." Sam said, feeling the weirdness of the hunt coming to them, for once.

He sighed. "My school's haunted." He said, feeling a little morose.

Dean just looked at him for a moment.

"You're kidding, right?" He said finally.

Sam just stared at him with one arched brow.

"Oh." Dean said, realizing Sam was, indeed serious. "Okay, that's new. It is new, right? Cause Dad is gonna skin us alive if it's been haunted this whole time and we're just now noticing."

Sam just shrugged.

"Well, classmates trying to burn other classmates faces off with acid is new." He offered.

Dean pressed his lips together, breathing out deeply. "Of course. Acid. Yeah, they didn't mention that at parent teacher conferences."

"Library?" Sam asked, nearly smiling at getting to ask the one question that never failed to bring that absolutely constipated look to his brother's face.

"Library." Dean grumbled in morose agreement. "You would take the AP classes. This stuff didn't happen in remedial science, I'm just letting you know."


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: Okay, everyone. I'm back. Sorry, I took a mini-hiatus. It's a little difficult to live in Supernatural Mindspace all the time, and with as many stories as I'm juggling, I have literally been eating, sleeping, breathing Winchesters since July. I love it, love writing, love reviews and talking to all of you, love everything about it, but sometimes I need to step back for a day or two, so I can fall back in love with my stories.**

**So, I marathoned three seasons of Once Upon A Time (Hook should totally call me. Seriously.)**

**Then I reread this story from the beginning, which took some time, I had forgotten how long this story had gotten. But I feel a little more in touch with it, now.**

**Sorry for the short update, but I'm do for several updates on several projects, so I am working double time. Anyway, now the scene is set for the next chapter to have some interesting things in it. As many of you guessed, John has started hunting the Colt, which plays a big part on the end game of this story, though not it the way you think.**

**Reviews are love, and I promise next chapter will be longer, just needed to set the scene, so to speak.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Prisoner Of War- Chapter Thirty-One**

"**The Line Between Hero and Villain"**

"And it's definitely never been haunted before?" Dean asked Sam for a third time.

Sam took a deep, calming breath. "Nope. No cold spots, no EVP, no flickering lights, knocking, rustling, moving objects, disappearing objects, problems with TV's, computers, phones or homicidal students. Zip. Zilch. Nada."

Dean grimacing. "Okay, okay. Sorry, I'll stop asking. It's just weird, you know, that this pops up now, just when..."

"When I start going there?" Sam interjected curtly.

Dean looked over from the microfiche he'd been reading. "No. Sam. That isn't what I was going to say. You been there for a couple of weeks now, anyway, and this is just now happening. What I was going to say was there's no history of haunting, so that rules out old deaths. And there's been no recent accidents, murders, or even disappearances. So that rules out recent deaths."

"So. Haunted object, cursed object..." Sam started muttering quietly. "No. No, it wasn't a cursed object. There was definitely a temperature drop in the room. I wasn't the only one to feel it. Even Rebecca did."

Dean looked up quickly. "Rebecca? Who's Rebecca?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "She was my lab partner today."

"In Chemistry?" Dean asked with a waggle of his brows.

"...Yes." Sam admitted reluctantly, and as expected, Dean's grin grew.

"What's she look like?" He asked, nudging Sam in the side with his elbow.

Sam looked over, unamused. "Well, about the time Alex tried to pour acid on Tyler's face, I'd say she looked pretty freaked out."

"Bet she looked pretty impressed when you saved him" Dean said, returning finally to his research.

Sam resisted the urge to beat his head against his own microfiche reader. "This isn't getting us anywhere. Maybe it's not the school. Maybe it's Alex?"

Dean shook his head. "Alex's house is clean, family's clean, whole boring life is squeaky clean. What did he say again?"

Sam frowned, picking through his memories for Alex's exact words. "He said something about bullying or revenge. I don't know, it was happening pretty fast. The 'kill you' part was pretty clear, though."

Dean nodded. "Okay, so revenge as a motivator. Pretty standard ghost MO. But why Alex? Why Tyler?"

Sam frowned in thought. "Tyler and some of the others guys can be assholes to some of the other kids. The nerdy ones. They give them a hard time."

Dean's eyes narrow. "They give you a hard time?" He asked.

Sam laughed without any real humor. "Hardly. I'm taller than most. In fact, I don't see too much of the bullying at all, anymore. I...might have stepped in last week when Derek, one of the guys on the basketball team, was hassling James, one of the..."

"Nerds?" Dean supplied helpfully.

Sam cut his eyes over to him. "Freshman, Dean. One of the freshman. Anyway, Derek was giving James a hard time-"

"Wedge?" Dean guessed and Sam shook his head.

"You're showing your age, Dean. Wedgies are old school now. No, Derek was trying to see if James could...fit into his locker."

Dean whistled. "Classic. What happened?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, my hand might have slipped...into Derek's face. Twice. Told him to stop being such a jerk."

Dean looked at Sam appraisingly. "What aren't you telling me?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Well, school had just let out, but...they halls were still pretty full."

Dean laughed. "Sam, my man. Marking your territory in front of an audience. I'm proud of you."

Sam scowled. "Well, don't be. You shouldn't be proud. It wasn't fair of me to hurt Derek. I'm trained for this. Derek's just a regular kid. I just wanted him to lay off James for a while. I didn't realize a crowd had gathered until afterward. I told him to stop being a jerk, but at the end, I was being one too."

Dean walked over to Sam. "Sam, you were helping someone. And guys like Derek have to learn that someone will stop them, or they just keep doing things like that too other people. I am proud of you."

Sam rubbed his forehead. "Well, I doubt Derek feels that way. Half the school's been treating him like a pariah all week. And it wasn't because he was bullying James. It's because he lost a fight with me. The only upside was, I thought maybe some of the others had laid off the younger kids, but now maybe they just were making sure I wasn't around."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean studied his brother. Sam looked tired and pale, and the way he was rubbing his forehead made Dean suspect he was having another of his all too frequent headaches.

Dean wasn't sure if Sam had his migraine meds on him, but that was fine, because Dean had taken to carrying a dose on him.

Sam couldn't take them on an empty stomach, though. Dean glanced up at the clock.

It was a little after five.

"Let's grab something to eat. This is a dead end. We need to take this to the next level." Dean said.

Sam glanced over at him. "What's that?" He asked.

"Feet on the ground, Sammy. We already got one man in." Dean stated.

"Yeah." Sam agreed, "Me. But what about you?" He asked.

Dean smiled. "Don't worry, I'll think of something."

The boys headed over to the diner, Dean thinking over everything Sam had told him. He'd meant what he'd said, he was proud of Sam for standing up to that jerk. God only knows how many times Dean had been forced to lay down the law at a new school when some asshole had taken one look at his undersized little brother and seen an easy mark. The stupid thing was, even when he had been the smallest kid in his class, he'd probably would have been able to take out even someone much bigger, because like Sam had said back at the library, Sam was trained to fight. That put him a class above most average bullies, and Sam had known it, even back then.

Was that why Sam had never fought back for himself? Had it seemed unfair, to him?

From the sound of it, the only reason Sam had interfered last week was because someone else was getting hurt.

At least he had told Dean about it. That was something. Dean was determined to out wait Sam, and this...whatever the hell his brother was going through. Come hell or high water, Sam was going to learn that Dean wasn't going to give up on him. But it was hard when Sam didn't let him in, didn't talk or share.

Dean didn't just want Sam to re-learn to trust him on hunts. He wanted Sam to trust him period. Whatever stupid switch had flipped in his brother's mind to make him think that Dean couldn't or wouldn't have his back, Dean was going to un-flip.

He just had to figure out what the hell it was first.

Maybe this case was a blessing in disguise, a chance to see Sam interact with his classmates, a part of his life Dean had been blocked out of since leaving high school.

They sat down at their usual table, and once again they went through their usual song and dance, about Sam ordering salad (not real food) and Dean ordering a burger (bad for him).

They had just started eating when a group of girls came in, talking hysterically. One of them spied Sam, and ran up to their table, tears streaming down her face.

"Sam, oh, my god, have you heard?" She said tearfully.

Sam had stood automatically, putting his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "What is it, Rebecca? Did Tyler get worse at the hospital?"

She shook her head. "No. It's even worse. I don't know what's going on. It's like the whole school's gone nuts or something. It's Jennifer. Jennifer Warden. She was in the bathroom, and Irene Cook came in. They got into some fight, I guess, and then..." She dissolved into tears, practically throwing herself into Sam's arms, and Dean met his brother's bewildered eyes.

Deciding to try and help his brother out, Dean spoke gently. "Rebecca, what happened."

Pulling reluctantly out of Sam's arms, she looked from one brother to the other.

"Irene killed her. Jennifer's...dead."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

John studied his map intently.

Dean had called him earlier with the update about Sam's school, but it sounded like the boys had it well in hand. John wouldn't step in unless they needed serious help.

Sam seemed to be coming along nicely, in his attitude and demeanor, at least. His emerging powers were alarming, of course, but not wholly unexpected.

If Sam could just continue to channel them to hunting, perhaps he could stave off his fate.

For a little while, anyway.

John placed another pin, marking another location.

A nursery fire.

It had started again.

But this time, John would be ready.

Bobby was narrowing down on Daniel Elkins, and then John would have what he needed to stop that hell spawn that had destroyed his family.

Maybe, just maybe it would save Sam.

And if not, then John would do what needed to be done.

One way or another, it would finally be done.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: Hey everyone, sorry for the short chapter. I wanted to get an update posted so you wouldn't think I have abandoned this story! However, I am battling a little bit of block on this episode, and I'm wavering between pushing through it even if it means the next few chapters fall kind of flat, or working on another story until I get a little more inspired. I'm also working a ton of overtime this week, so my brain is a little fried. Thanks for your patience.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox. My sandbox is big, green and shaped like a turtle. This...is not my sandbox.**

**Prisoner of War- Chapter Thirty-Two**

"**Gym Class Heros"**

Dean shone his flashlight up and down the darkened hallway of the high school. It was far past midnight, and the halls seemed to echo with the dim cacophony of sneakers and slamming lockers.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean whispered, deliberately shining the light in his sibling's eyes, "Which way is the girls locker rooms?" He waggled his eyebrows for good measure.

"Working, Dean." Sam muttered, jerking out of the way of the light. He turned and continued down the hallway, appearing solely focused on their mission.

Dean sighed inwardly. He had hoped this case might be a chance to reconnect with his brother, but if anything, Sam actually seemed even more uptight now than he was before. He was more withdrawn, hiding steadfastly behind the facts and eccentricities of the case so far.

"Okay, so the attack in the chemistry lab was on the second floor, west wing. So, down that hall, then to the left. The bathroom where Jennifer was murdered was on the first floor, north wing, just past the cafeteria." Sam said, using his own flashlight to demonstrate his directions, voice echoing softly.

"West? North? How many directions does this school have?" Dean muttered. He hadn't realized Sam's school was so big. High schools, any of the many he'd attended before dropping out, had always felt small to him, claustrophobic, almost, but now, at night, the halls seemed impossibly long and dark.

They felt lonely.

"Four Dean. Like a compass." Sam answered, deadpan. He swung his light back and forth, the light glancing off the dull metal of the lockers and the windows of the doors as they passed.

"Bitch." Dean muttered, glancing at Sam with a crooked smirk.

Sam looked over at him, startled. He started to open his mouth, then closed it again just as quickly.

"Jerk." He finally muttered, now looking anywhere but directly at Dean.

Dean frowned, shaking off his unease at the fact that once again, Sam just seemed to be...reading a script.

Dean couldn't decide if Sam still felt the weight of their argument, or simply the weight of all the things they had argued about. The things Sam had said had been...bleak, to say the least. But Dean knew that crazy teenage hormones could do a number on a person, God knew, Sam had had his share of angst over the past few years.

But what he'd said back in Indiana had been more than angsty, it had been...hopeless.

"Okay. So, the two victims had a couple of classes together, but the perps didn't. Different years, different classes." Sam said, startling Dean out of his thoughts.

"What about the office? Did you check their records?" Dean asked, keeping an eye of his homemade EMF reader as they made their way down the hall.

"Yeah. While you were disabling the back up on the camera system. They live on the same side of town, but different neighborhoods. Neither one has any records of fighting or violence, though Alex had been roughed up a couple of times over the past few months." Sam replied, coming over to look at the reader over Dean's shoulder. "You getting anything?"

"Nah, not really. Every once in a while, it blips, but my guess is, it's just residual. I don't think it's the school, it's just happening at the school." Dean said, glancing around them once again.

Sam shook his head. "That's a hell of a coincidence, unless whatever this spirit is is targeting high schoolers on purpose. Or, a cursed object some kid is bringing to school, in their bag or something."

"Could be the spirit of a high schooler. Almost for sure, if I had to bet. The victims might not have anything tangible in common, other than the school. But no way someone dies in this school without making the newspapers, and we checked everything back to the original land grants. Let's check out the science lab." Dean replied.

The quickly made their way to the second floor. With just a few deft movements of his lock picks, Dean had them in the science lab. Sam started investigating the actual lab area, my Dean started checking first the teacher's desk and then to storage area.

"Look at all this crap. What the hell is all this stuff for, Sam? Making nuclear bombs?" Dean asked, shining his light over the bottles of chemicals locked in the chemistry labs storage closet.

Sam shrugged. "Well, that's how nuclear bombs got their start, I guess. That acid would definitely done a number on Tyler's face. If it had got into his throat, it might have killed him." Sam said noncommittally.

Dean glanced over at his brother, who was examining the lab table where Alex and Tyler had been sitting. "So, I take it you know what to do with all this stuff, being a science nerd and all."

He hadn't given up on breaking through Sam's shell. Time was, Sam would have happily talked for hours about school. That Sam had to be in there somewhere. Dean didn't want a return to all the fighting and the drama, it was true, but Sam was only sixteen. He still had nearly two years of high school left, and unlike Dean, Sam had always enjoyed school. Dean knew they had to move around a lot, it was unavoidable, but he still hoped Sam could enjoy as much as possible.

Surely there was some kind of happy medium.

Sam shrugged, uncomfortable once again.. "I know enough to pass. Science was never my forte."

Dean snorted. "Dude, you forget, I'm the one who fakes Dad's signatures on your grade cards. Everything's your forte."

It was true. From his first day of kindergarten, Sam had earned nearly straight A's. Dean would say that good grades came easily to his brother, but regardless of how easy he could get the "A", Sam always pushed himself to the next level, refusing to settle for less than the challenge.

Was that what he was doing now?

Sam knelt, ignoring Dean as he focused on a dark substance on the floor. "I don't know about that..." He murmured, dragging his pen knife through the black gunk and holding it up for Dean's perusal.

"But I know what that is." Sam added grimly.

Dean narrowed his eyes as he knelt beside his brother. "Dude, is that ectoplasm?"

"Yeah. I think...Dean, when I wrestled Alex down to the ground, he was laying on his stomach, and his head was turned...to the left. I think this came _out_ of him, out of...his ear." Sam said slowly.

"That's a full on ghost possession then, and a hell of a nasty one." Dean replied, sitting back on his heels.

Sam nodded mutely. "But we still can't tie the perps and the victims together. I don't know the pattern, except..."

"Except?" Dean prodded, when Sam didn't finish his sentence.

"Well, Jen was know to be kind of bitchy to the other students. She was pretty, but..." Sam trailed off again.

"In a mean girl kind of way?" Dean offered, remembering how cruel some of the girls he had dated could be to the school's lower class citizens.

"This is nuts." Sam was shaking his head.

"Nothing like this has happened here, until now." Sam said, pushing away, distress clear on his face

"Hey, Sammy, come on man, it's gonna be okay. We'll figure it out." Dean said reassuringly, reaching for Sam's shoulder, but Sam danced away, and Dean was forced to let his hand drop to his side.

Sam looked at him in disbelief. "Dean, my damned high school is haunted. We didn't come to Caroline to hunt ghosts, we came because it was central to dad's big, top secret plan. We're not chasing after the ghost this time, it's practically throwing itself at us." He ran his hand restlessly through his shaggy hair.

"What, you think this is some kind of ghost conspiracy?" Dean asked, hoping a joke would lighten the mood.

Sam just shook his head, closing his eyes for a minute as he turned away. "No, just my life." He muttered.

Once again, Dean flashed back to their fight in the motel room, about what Sam said about not getting to have college or friends or anything normal.

Damn it.

"Sam. We're going to find whatever is causing the problem, and we're gonna gank it. Then you can take all the damn AP classes your nerdy heart desires." Dean said sternly.

His brother looked at him tiredly. "Yeah, Dean. Whatever you say."

Dean closed his eyes, silently counting to ten. He looked a Sam again, really looked at him, at the lines of weariness, the dark shadows under the kid's eyes.

"Okay, we're not going to find anything else here. Let's head home for the night. We can start fresh tomorrow." He decided.

Sam shook his head. "We still have no idea what we are up against, Dean."

"We'll start again tomorrow, Sam." Dean insisted, leading Sam down the stairs towards the side door they had disabled in order to get into the building.

"There's school tomorrow. Normally, I'd skip, but the school's the only lead we have." Sam said as they climbed into the Impala. "What, are you going to hit the library by yourself tomorrow?"

Dean snorted. "No, I think the library's a dead end. You're right, the school's our only real lead."

"So, what's the plan? You're not exactly gonna pass for a high school student, besides, half my grade knows your my brother." Sam asked as they pulled up in front of their rental.

"Your handsome, charming brother." Dean corrected with a smirk.

"Dude, still working here. Seriously, what's your plan?" Sam insisted, climbing out of the car.

"Well, this thing targets bullies right?" Dean asked, shutting the Impala's door shut behind him.

"Yeah, so far anyway." Sam said warily.

Dean smiled. "Well, what better place to hunt a bully than gym class?"

"Oh, god." Sam said, a tone of desperation in his voice. "I thought you swore never to wear shorts again."

"It's for the cause, Sam. It's for the cause. Don't worry, you don't have gym this semester, right?" Dean said with a gleeful smile.

"I tested out." Sam said faintly, a look of mild horror still lingering on his face.

"How the hell do you test out of Gym?" Dean asked incredulously, turning back to look at his brother in amusement.

"You do more push ups than the coach." Sam replied, as he started up the stairs.

"With your bum shoulder?" Dean asked, scrunching up his nose. Push-ups sucked on a good day.

'Yeah, I...did them one handed." Sam replied self consciously, before heading to his room.

"Geez, I'm gonna have to start training again. Damn showoff." Dean muttered.


End file.
